


Run To You

by evenhisfacewasanalias



Series: The Amira series [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Blind Character, Bodyguard Romance, Clothed Sex, Cunnilingus, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Force-Sensitive Original Character(s), Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, Keldabe Kiss, Pre-Series, Protectiveness, Slow Build, Slow Dancing, Tenderness, Touch-Starved, slight praise kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenhisfacewasanalias/pseuds/evenhisfacewasanalias
Summary: Gideon originally hires the Mandalorian as a bodyguard for his niece, who is not as helpless she appears. Initially set during the time of the Empire, prior to the series, but we'll be seeing baby Yoda by the end!This is for all of you who loved Amira in my previous story! A special thank you to PlushyRobot who loved Amira too, and not only made this story happen but beta-d and illustrated it!
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Amira series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627279
Comments: 106
Kudos: 386





	1. Babysitter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlushyRobot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlushyRobot/gifts).



He could already tell he would regret taking this job. All Karga had told him was that the job was on Neridiaam, which meant the job involved Imperials. He hated working with Imps, especially in Empire territory. The Mandalorian preferred working in the Outer Rim, where most were smart enough to keep to their own business. Worst case he had to deliver a bounty to one of the Hutts, maybe risk being thrown to a hungry pet when the Hutt took offense to some aspect of his character. But he’d rather fight a hundred Rancor than deal with the Empire. 

He needed the money though, and the job promised to pay well. The Razor Crest was badly in need of repairs, and he couldn’t justify working out in the open like this with nothing to bring back to the tribe and the new foundlings. So he knew no matter how risky the job was, he’d be taking it.

* * *

He would not be taking the job. 

“I’m a bounty hunter, not a babysitter.” 

The Mandalorian wasn’t about to spend any more time in Imperial territory than he needed to, and looking after some officer’s spoiled brat was not exactly his line of work.

But Marshal Gideon, as he was rapidly learning, was not the kind of man who took ‘no’ for an answer. “If you take issue with the title of bodyguard I will put out a bounty on anyone who threatens my niece. 20,000 credits a head sounds fair?”

“Fine. Point me in their direction.” 

The Marshal gives him a hard stare, lips thinning into a severe line. “If I knew who was threatening her I would have taken care of them myself a long time ago.”

He should have known this mission would be complicated when the Marshal himself met him at the shipyard. The Imps usually made you come to them, escorted by a cadre of trigger-happy Stormtroopers the entire time. Gideon came alone.

“I wouldn’t have brought in outside security if I could rely on our own intel. There’s been intelligence leaks all over the compound - we’ve had smugglers getting through checkpoints, government shipments raided, prisoners breaking free of their transports. I previously had several Stormtroopers looking after my niece but one was killed by an Imperial blaster. I can’t even trust our internal security - someone here is clearly working against the Empire’s interests, and it’s putting her at risk.” He pauses for a moment to let his speech settle in, while the Mandalorian suppresses a scoff. So much for the mighty Empire, if it can’t even maintain control over this tiny planet. But Gideon finally gets to the point, “I need someone free of allegiances to anything except the money I’m paying him. And Karga tells me that man is you.” 

“I’m not good with kids.” He feels the need to state.

“I’m not paying you to play nursemaid. You don’t even need to speak with her, I simply want you to keep her out of harm’s way when I am not there with her.”

“For 10,000 credits a week?” It wasn’t bad money with the way things were going lately. 

Taking the question as a sign he would be accepting the job, Gideon starts walking them towards his land speeder. “For up to twelve weeks, yes. After that I’ll be leaving this backwater hellhole and taking her somewhere safer.”

“And all I just have to do is take out anyone that threatens her until then?”

The Marshal turns back to face him, his expression hard. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mandalorian. This is a full time job. And I expect you to defend her with your life. If you wish I can stipulate in our agreement that in the case of your demise your full payment will go to your next of kin. If you have any left, of course.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t let himself react to the pointed remark, stepping into the speeder without another word. The offer is too good to pass up for some Imp saying what everyone already believes about his people - a belief that benefits them for the time being. The Marshal might be somewhat volatile and more than a little paranoid, but he had worked with worse for less money. He could survive a few petty remarks and a few months of boredom.

* * *

Neridiaam didn’t look like most Imperial territories he had seen before. On his rare journeys into the Mid Rim and Expansion Zone he had found the planets either home to a sterile metropolis or desolate wastelands turned work camps, nothing in between. Here all of the buildings were much older, and while not particularly impressive they were fairly well maintained. The planet’s inhabitants must not have put up much of a fight when the Empire showed up, though many of them could be seen milling around the streets and marketplaces. Aside from a few temples and old government buildings it didn’t look like much had been demolished in the takeover. It also didn’t look like much had been built by the planet’s new rulers, either. Which made it easy enough to spot the Marshal’s compound, even from a distance. The imperious looking durasteel towers stood out aggressively amongst all the smaller pourstone buildings surrounding it. It looked nearly impenetrable from the outside, though the Mandalorian thought to himself that his very presence here proved it wasn’t.

The Marshal scans them past several blast doors to enter the compound and strangely no one bothers to check the Mandalorian or his weapons. Inside, the buildings formed a maze of starkly monochromatic hallways and lifts that he did his best to memorize as he is swiftly led to their destination. They travel up several floors before stopping at an unremarkable door.

Inside was an apartment, exactly as he expected from the Empire - all sleek lines and uncomfortable looking furniture, broken up only by a few slashes of green from the potted plants that littered empty tables and otherwise bare alcoves. Other than this the place boasted only a small sitting room with a large window looking out towards the mountains, a utilitarian kitchen, and three more doors further from the entrance. 

“You will be in this room.” Gideon points to the nearest door. It’s the first words that have been spoken since they stepped onto the speeder. “I will remind you now that you’re expected to be at her side at all hours, unless she is with me.”

The Mandalorian enters the small room, which looks as though it had formerly been a small office or storage space that had been converted into a temporary bunk. He sets down his pack at the edge of the cot and considers it’s roomier than his usual accommodations. That doesn’t go too far towards warming him to this job, however.

“And then my niece should be in - “ The Mandalorian hears the slide of the furthest door, followed by a frustrated sigh. He turns to see the Marshal pinching the bridge of his nose as he faces an empty bedroom. “You will need to keep a closer eye on her. She has no sense of the danger she is in and still wanders as she pleases.”

With this, the Marshal turns around sharply and starts leading them back to the lower levels. A picture has started forming in the Mandalorian’s mind of just what he’s gotten himself into. Somehow he’s agreed to looking after some overindulged Imperial brat with a penchant for running off on her own. Boredom is suddenly the least of his worries.

* * *

The Marshal leads him to a small courtyard, tucked towards the back of the compound, high walls segregating it from the mountains behind them. The courtyard itself is something of a curiosity from what he has seen so far. Though Neridiaam isn’t exactly lacking in signs of life, it pales in comparison to the lush space in front of him now. A startling number of species of plant life - most obviously not of the local variety - crowd into the space, interrupted only by a snaking stone path that’s partially hidden by untended growth. After the stark whites and grays of the compound the riot of colors that surround them nearly comes as a shock, particularly with the twin suns just starting to set. But instead he finds it oddly peaceful out here. Refreshing even, like he could almost forget where he was and why he was here.

But if the garden had been an unexpected sight, the girl sheltered beneath the trees ahead is even more so. She’s not a little kid, first of all. He’d guess at least mid to late twenties - a woman, not a girl. Though she is facing away from them there is a stillness to her that belies a greater age than the one he had imagined, based on her uncle’s warnings. He’s not sure if this makes the job easier, or harder. She certainly doesn’t fit his picture of a spoiled Imperial brat, even though he could tell from here that her dress and her jewels were probably worth more than his ship at this point.

“You were supposed to stay in your room,” Gideon hisses at the woman, causing her to turn and face them. And that’s when he first notices her eyes, and how they don’t quite meet either of them. Though his visor tends to lend a darker hue to everything he sees, it is easy to tell that her eyes are far too pale.

“I didn’t want to miss the Kore blossoms, Uncle. I am sorry to have worried you.” Her expression appears contrite, though her uncle seems hardly mollified by the apology. His voice is still stern when he speaks again.

“Amira, this is your new bodyguard. I expect you to let him do his job.”

The girl stands from where she is seated on a low stone bench, walking towards them. The Mandalorian notices her feet are bare.

“Of course, Uncle.”

“Very well then. I have matters of state to attend to.” And with that the Marshal makes another sharp turn and swiftly exits the garden, leaving the Mandalorian to awkwardly face his new charge alone.

She, however, seems utterly unperturbed by his presence, and moves to reclaim her perch on the stone bench. The silence stretches between them for several long minutes. He tries to better take in their surroundings, evaluate any vulnerabilities and get a sense of all the entry points and exits, though it’s hard to determine through the dense foliage in this particular corner.

“You can sit here, you know.” Her hand sweeps out to indicate the bench beside her. “We’re walled off from the outside, and no one else ever comes out here. You can relax.”

Uncertain of what else to do, he takes the proferred seat, and he uses the new vantage point to study her profile. Her face, too, is not what he imagined from a daughter of the Empire. Her features are clear and soft, in direct contrast to the harshness of her uncle’s. Her hair is pulled back into a series of imperfect braids to keep it from falling into her face, but the remainder flows freely around her shoulders. He can’t get a good visual on her coloring through his visor with the deep red lighting of the sunset, but he can’t seem to find any trace of family resemblance no matter how he looks at her.

“I know what you’re thinking, and he’s not really my Uncle,” she offers in a very matter-of-fact manner, before continuing, “he and my father were friends when they were younger, and when my parents were killed he brought me here to stay with him.”

Marshal Gideon didn’t exactly seem like the type for rescuing orphans, but he didn’t really know much about his employer - it was guild policy not to enquire too deeply. Still, rethinking his image of the man kept him from slipping into the memory of his own losses. Thankfully, she interrupts either thought.

“You don’t say much, do you?” 

“Don’t usually need to, in my line of work.”

“And what line of work is that?” Amira doesn’t quite face him, but she inclines her head slightly towards him. He figures there’s no real harm in telling her.

“Bounty hunting.” 

“A fitting job for a Mandalorian. But how’d you end up as my bodyguard?” Her brows knit together and he realizes he’s mirroring her expression, not that she can see him.

“I’ve been asking myself that same question.”

That draws a surprised laugh out of the woman beside him. Her face settles into a small smile. “I suppose it’s not that much a stretch - I’m sure you regularly have to escort your bounties safely wherever they’re heading.”

“I usually just put them in cryo.” He answers truthfully, usure what else to say.

She laughs again, though with far less humor than before. “Don’t tell my Uncle that, he probably wishes he could freeze me away whenever I become inconvenient for him.”

He’s thinking once again that he doesn’t really know much about the Marshal beyond their terms of contract, and can’t offer up any reassurances to the contrary. He considers letting them lapse back into silence, but her brows are knitting up again and he decides a change in topic is the safer option. 

“So what exactly am I looking at here?”

“I don’t know, what are you looking at?” She asks him back, in a manner he thinks might be teasing. Right. Of course. She doesn’t seem to take any real offense to his slip however, turning back towards the trees in front of them. “If you’re facing the same direction as I am, you should be able to see a few vines running up along the trees. They’ll have little buds along each string.”

He thinks he sees what she’s talking about. The vines don’t quite go all the way up the trees, but they’re covered in small purple buds. The color is nice enough but they’re not particularly impressive considering their surroundings.

“They’re called Kore flowers. They’re one of the few local plants in the whole garden. The rest of it was all brought in by the previous Marshal, who was trying to impress his mistress - though it turned out she was allergic to most of it.” She laughs a little at the irony, “but the Kore blossoms - they only bloom once a lunar cycle, and only when Kore is fully overhead - the next blooms won’t be for another 76 days.” She’s smiling again as she explains this all to him, and he looks up to where space between the trees is still faintly lit by the dying rays of the suns. 

“It will probably be another couple hours before the moon is overhead.” He remarks, not knowing what else to add, and her frown returns.

“But I asked the computer for the sun set time, it should be nighttime soon…”

“I don’t see the moon out yet, so it may take a little longer to get overhead.” The Mandolorian does some rough calculations in his head - Neridiaam’s days are a little over 32 hours long, with nights at this latitude about ten hours long. If he doesn’t see the moon out yet, it’s not going to be overhead any time soon with an orbit that slow.

“Oh.” She sounds a little put out by the information, but she recovers easily enough. “Then will you tell me when the moon is overhead?”

“Sure.” He can think of worse things to do than sit and watch the sky for a few hours. It also gives him a little time to figure out just what the hell he’s doing here.

“Thank you.”

She responds with such sincerity it nearly catches him off guard. He’s rarely been thanked in his line of work, and never for such a small request as this. With the mountains shielding them on one side, and a less than silent door as the only entrance to the courtyard, it’s no trouble to occasionally search the sky for her. A far more comfortable silence stretches out between them, broken only by her offering up a few more facts about the flowers.

“How were you planning to know when the plants bloomed anyway?” He can’t help but ask, still not entirely sure why she’s so excited for an event she can’t even witness.

“When the petals open they’re supposed to smell like moonlight.”

The Mandalorian does his best not to scoff at that description, “what does moonlight even smell like?”

“I’m not quite sure, but I’d like to find out.” She smiles, completely unfazed by his skepticism. “I’ve also been told they’re very nice to look at when they bloom.”

He’s never been one for looking at flowers, but after nearly two hours of sitting here waiting he’ll admit he’s growing a little curious.

“How do the flowers know when the moon is overhead?”

“Perhaps they have someone else tell them,” she teases, then adds, more seriously, “plants can sense changes in temperature and light, they know when the time is right.”

Speaking of changes in light and temperature, he’s somehow missed how the temperature has dropped considerably since the light faded. It doesn’t particularly affect him, covered as he is in multiple layers. But the woman beside him is less appropriately bundled. Her dress is of a loose shimmering fabric, with a semi-sheer cape that exposes her bare arms - arms that are currently covered in gooseflesh. Between that and her bare feet he is tempted to escort her back to her quarters for more appropriate clothing, but she seems utterly content in the chill air. 

In the end he doesn’t even need to tell her when the moon is overhead. The blossoms themselves are spectacular - erupting into intricate purple flowers with an inner corona of small white filaments that almost seem to glow as they reach upwards towards the night sky. But the scent hits them even before the petals are fully open - something cool and faintly sweet. The description of moonlight might be a little on the poetic side, but it seems as appropriate as any other. 

He shouldn’t be surprised that Amira slides off the bench to kneel on the ground, with a complete disregard for her fine clothing, in order to breathe the scent more deeply and feel for the opened blooms. He watches as her fingers trace along the wide petals at the outside, where the purple color is the deepest, hears her laughing as the inner filaments tickle her fingertips. Apparently the flower’s glow isn’t just a trick of the light, as when she pulls back her fingertips and the tip of her nose are also faintly glowing - though only for a few moments before fading once again. She almost looks childlike crouched down among the plants, and he feels an unfamiliar sense of protectiveness. But he doesn’t give into her urgings that he join her on the ground as she explores each and every bloom. Instead he takes a moment to rest his eyes. With his curiosity satisfied he remembers the lateness of the hour, but he keeps his other senses tuned for any approach.

* * *

It’s the silence that makes him reopen his eyes again. Amira is no longer in front of him. He scans around but there’s no immediate sign of her. He’s already running when he hears the slide of the door.

But it’s just her, standing in the doorway without looking back at him.

“Let me escort you back to your quarters.” He thinks he’s beginning to understand this situation a little better.

“I don’t actually need a bodyguard, you know,” she finally faces him. “I know he’s paying you to be but I won’t tell him anything.”

“It won’t really matter what you tell him if you wind up dead on my watch.”

“Don’t be silly, my Uncle is just paranoid.” She remains unfazed.

“And the dead Stormtrooper?”

“He probably shot himself, they’re not exactly elite marksmen.” The girl isn’t wrong, but he’s surprised by the coolness of her response.

“Look, if you don’t want a bodyguard then just let me guide you around for a few months and we’ll call it square.” He hopes the change of titles might mollify her.

It doesn’t. If anything her expression hardens, and she turns to leave him at the door. She moves faster through the hallways than he would have predicted and it’s tough to match her pace without jogging behind her. Any lingering Stormtroopers in the hallway immediately move aside for her, though they don’t offer the same courtesy to him. Amira seems to know exactly where she is heading as she meanders through all the twists and turns and weirdly small passages throughout the compound until he’s lost all sense of where they are before they’re somehow back at her quarters, and she’s once again facing him in the doorway.

“I don’t need a guide any more than I need a bodyguard.” 

Her expression is still hard, and he’s trying to think of a way to explain that he wasn’t belittling her to suggest she needed a guide, but thinks better of it.

“This isn’t exactly my first choice either.” It’s as close to an apology as he can offer right now.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

Her anger seems to deflate as quickly as it came on. But still she stands there blocking the doorway for several long minutes, seeming to consider him even though her eyes are pointed somewhere to the left of his shoulder. Eventually she seems to make up her mind about it one way or the other, and walks into the apartment, clearly expecting him to follow her.

“Would you like anything to eat?” She offers not unkindly, as if she didn’t just force him to race through a maze of her own making for daring to suggest she might need help getting around.

“I’m not hungry right now.” He is, but he doesn’t exactly feel like explaining that he cannot remove his helmet with her still in the room, that it is not the Mandalorian way. “But thanks.”

“Well, if you get hungry you are welcome to anything in the kitchen. And if you want anything else we can go pick it up in the marketplace tomorrow.”

The Mandalorian hopes that this signals she’s coming to terms with his role here. He allows her to show him around the apartment and refrains from telling her he already knows where everything is, content to have her explain it all to him again - though a little less brusquely than her uncle had earlier. He’s pleased to find that the only surveillance on the apartment is at the entrance and near the windows. Apparently this apartment also was designed for the previous Marshal’s mistress, and he’s relieved his own bunk was added only recently.

Her room is much larger and well-appointed, and the fresher between their rooms is fancier than any he’s ever encountered. But he doesn’t begrudge her any of this. Aside from the plants the whole place feels just as soulless as anything else the Empire constructs. No wonder she has a tendency to wander off.

“What do I even call you anyway?” She finally asks as they are heading to their respective rooms. “You never told me your name.”

“Mandalorian is fine.”

She considers this too, for a long moment. “Alright then. Goodnight, Mandalorian.”

She’s smiling again, like she had before. And he’s wondering to himself once again just what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's a little different than my previous story but I hope you all enjoy this new world I've created for them. There will definitely be more shenanigans and some exciting revelations to come, but if there's anything you think a Bodyguard AU absolutely must have comment here and I'll try and work it into my current outline. I'm never one to pass up a romantic trope!
> 
> Art for the chapter is by the wonderful PlushyRobot!


	2. The Lesson

If the Mandalorian is surprised to see her making the morning meal for herself, he doesn’t say anything - not wishing for a repeat of last night. He manages to hold his tongue even as he watches her rapidly slice through a piece of jogan fruit, the sharp knife sliding nearer and nearer to her exposed fingertips...

“It’s called proprioception. I know where my fingers are and I won’t cut them. I promise you can breathe now,” she teases across the countertop.

He lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Though the knife does come dangerously close to her fingers several times, she always pulls back at just the right moment. And then she’s gathering up the fruit slices and putting them over two bowls of some kind of cooked grain.

It is surprising enough to see the child of a high ranking Imperial officer prepare food for herself, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting her to make food for him as well. He offers up a bewildered thanks when she sets the bowl in front of him before starting in on her own.

“You should go ahead and eat it before the fruit gets hot and becomes way too sweet.”

This is true, and he is pretty hungry at this point, only having eaten one of his own protein packs the evening before. 

“I’ll just - “ he starts, before picking up the bowl and heading towards his bunk.

“There’s no need to be so formal. For the foreseeable future we might as well get used to living in each other’s pockets.” Amira seems far more accepting of their arrangement in the light of day, but she’s clearly misreading his retreat.

“I cannot remove my helmet in front of another living being. This is the way.” 

An expression of comprehension flickers over her face, followed by one of confusion. But her questions will keep until after he eats. By the time the door closes behind him and his helmet is off, the jorgan is already warm and sickly sweet.

* * *

“Even though I can’t see your face?”

It never gets easier to explain to others that the Mandalorian code is their religion - they don’t go seeking out loopholes. A blind Mandalorian is a dead Mandalorian, so the inability to see has never factored in. And as he currently has a private bunk where he can take his meals, and a fresher that locks, it is not a question that needs an immediate answer. So he says nothing.

“Do Mandalorians count plants as living beings?” It’s not one of the usual questions, but it’s much easier to answer.

“They are not sentient.”

“Some are.” The edges of her lips just barely quirk up, as if she could tell him the names and origins of a dozen such plants right now. 

“When I run into one I’ll let you know.”

Her head tilts slightly to the side as she ponders again. He allows himself to make another study of the girl in the brighter lights of the apartment. Her hair is still pulled back in loose braids, though slightly neater than the night before. Her features look just as soft under stronger lights, though somehow he missed the faint line of freckles that run across her nose and cheeks before. Her straight brows are knitted slightly as she thinks. He’s already starting to adjust to monitoring her expression rather than her eyeline to tell when she’s considering him.

“Droids aren’t living beings.” Is what she finally comes up with.

“I wouldn’t trust a droid as far as you could throw one.” He’s thankful Amira doesn’t seem to own even so much as a mouse droid.

“So you wouldn’t ever remove your helmet in front of a droid?”

“No.”

She considers this answer for a long time too. “I think I understand. It is not about being seen, it is about being without your armor.” 

And with that the questions cease, far sooner than with most. He thinks to himself she might actually understand, with how hard she works to shield herself from any perception of vulnerability. She wears her stubbornness and independence like a suit of armor, one she has no wish to set aside even with him here to look out for her. Perhaps even because he is here.

* * *

The Mandalorian notices a subtle change in her demeanor when Marshal Gideon enters the apartment shortly after their morning meal. 

“There is a doctor here to see you today. I have already taken the liberty of cancelling your lesson in the city so you can meet with him.” He announces.

The Mandalorian sees a flash of annoyance cross Amira’s face before it settles into a more placid expression.

“I wish you had let me know earlier so I could talk to Master Pav myself.” It’s a far gentler rebuke than any she’s given him thus far, but all teasing is gone from her voice.

“I am informing you now.”

She seems to take his curt response in stride. “When will I see the doctor?” 

“He is already in my office, we will go see him now.”

“Yes, Uncle.” She goes to walk out the door on her own.

“Your health is important to me, Amira.” He reminds her as she passes him.

The Mandalorian follows them, uncertain what else to do. He watches as the Marshal’s hand hovers carefully at Amira’s back, without quite making contact. 

Their relationship is a strange one. The Marshal obviously seems concerned with his niece, or whatever she is - enough to worry about her health and safety. And she seems to let him, in a way he hadn’t expected based on the little he knows of her so far. But if her stubbornness seems a little more subdued around her guardian, so is the easy familiarity he sensed in her this morning. The walk to the Marshal’s office is mostly a silent one.

* * *

The Mandalorian waits outside the office until the appointment is finished, not having been given any clear dismissal. The doctor leaves first, with Gideon brusquely thanking him for coming all this way. Behind them, Amira sits slightly paler in one of the office chairs, but she stands easily and turns down any offers of assistance. When she finds him at the doorway she simply tells him she is going back to the garden, and he follows her as she seems to expect him to.

Once outside she seems to gain back a little of her color. She’s wearing that soft smile again, wandering around the stone path pointing out some of the plants she can identify from touch and scent alone: the sourcane reeds, which are edible but not particularly tasty, the spindle fern which curls up on itself when touched no matter how lightly, and the plom blooms which fell from the small trees that litter the courtyard. 

But she doesn’t say anything more about this morning's visit. Guild rules discourage him asking too many questions about a client, but knowing any potential vulnerabilities is critical to performing his job. He can’t think of any polite way to get the information he needs.

“Are you sick?” He finally asks, but she just shakes her head at his blunt question.

“No, it’s nothing like that. It was just a routine medical exam - blood tests, reflexes, things like that.”

“Then why not just - “ He stops himself, realizing he’s asked too much already with his first question.

She finishes the question for him. “Why not just do it here, during a scheduled appointment? My Uncle doesn’t trust the doctors here, so he brought in someone from the outside. It’s a bit of a theme lately.” 

She laughs a little weakly at that, and he still worries she’s not entirely ok. Seeming to sense this question at the tip of his tongue, she answers him again. “I’m fine, really. Just a little tired - I probably should have eaten something after he did the blood tests.”

“We should go back to your rooms then.”

“Or there’s a loquat tree right above us. You could pull me down one of the fruits.”

The Mandalorian looks up and sure enough there are several clusters of small yellowish fruits above them. Though the lowest branches have already been picked clean, in all likelihood by Amira herself, his added height means he can reach those that she can not. 

The fruit feels delicate in his hand, and he accidentally crushes the first piece in his grasp. Apparently Amira hears him shaking the sticky remnants from his gloved hand because her shoulders are shaking with silent laughter beside him. He’s much more careful with the second piece, and succeeds in placing the intact fruit into her waiting hands. Despite the delicacy of the fruit’s flesh, she manages to eat it without making nearly the mess he made just trying to hold it. She holds out her hand for another piece and he gives it to her without question. She really does look better for having eaten the fruit, though perhaps some of that is from laughing at him.

“You should have a piece too. I can turn away or go on the other side of the trees if you need me to.” She kindly offers the third fruit back to him.

“Maybe another time.” He already has plenty covering the leather of his gloves and he’s not sure he wants to risk the rest of his clothing today. And he finds he wants her to have the fruit, strangely preferring the delighted look on her face to having some of his own.

* * *

The next day an ion storm keeps them from going out to the courtyard, and they’re forced to spend the day trapped in her small apartment. He takes the opportunity to catalog his weapons and make some small modifications to his armor while she works her way through a surprising number of sound disks - some music, and also a significant number of audio histories of the galaxy and its inhabitants. Through this he learns that her mother was formerly a Minority Party Representative in the Senate, though she never mentions from where, and he learns that Amira apparently knows even more about diplomacy than she knows about botany. He observes it in how she speaks so courteously but noncommittally with her uncle, though she is far more direct with him. 

Still, he is slowly becoming used to the close quarters and the lack of silence with so little else to fill their time. Amira’s botanical commentary is pleasant enough, and there is a surprising lack of Imperial censorship in her history disks, though he notices there’s very little mention of the Outer Rim planets. He doesn’t add much by way of conversation himself, but he does mention this data gap to her.

“Maybe you could tell me about Mandalore, then?”

She comes over to the counter where he’s attempting to reinforce a weak point in his greaves. He searches for any sign of teasing, but there is none to be found. She’s apparently just as curious about his world as she is about everything else. And yet his tongue feels heavy with the effort to even begin to describe the homeworld of his people. He’s hit once again with the weight of working for those that subjugated his people, even though it means bringing back much needed resources to his clan, and even if he is merely protecting one insignifiant girl. He may not be aiding the Empire, but he’s certainly not fighting it.

“Our history isn’t one of politics, it’s one of wars and battles. We tell our history through the great warriors, their losses and victories.”

She doesn’t seem the least bit discouraged by this description. “I don’t mind.”

“It wouldn’t make much sense to you. You’ve never experienced a war.” He tries again.

“We’re in a war right now.”

She’s not wrong, but they both know that’s not what he meant. “You’ve never had to fight one.”

“So teach me how.”

“How to what?”

“How to fight.”

“You planning to join the war?” Just this morning he watched her rescue a scavenger beetle from a cleaning droid and tuck it safely into one of her living room plants. He can’t imagine she’s anything but a pacifist.

“No, but I could learn to defend myself. Then you and my uncle wouldn’t need to worry about me so much.”

The Mandalorian isn’t certain if teaching this girl how to fight will make his job easier or harder. He thinks perhaps a little of both, but there’s not much else to do trapped inside her apartment like this. So he agrees to show her.

“So are you going to teach me how to fire a blaster then?” The sides of her mouth twitch upwards in a way that lets him know she’s joking even though her voice never betrays her.

“Would you even know where to shoot?”

She seems to seriously consider this, “if the other person was really close.”

“In close quarters blasters are mostly useless. I think we should start you with some hand to hand lessons. For your own safety.”

“And for yours?” She’s not even trying to hide her grin at this point. “I am at a pretty big disadvantage though, maybe I should be given some kind of weapon at least?”

“We’ll save the weapons training for another day.” He’s still adjusting to the idea that she won’t hurt herself in the kitchen or with her gardening shears, he’s not about to add a vibroblade to the list of his worries. And she needs to learn the basics first.

“Size isn’t always an advantage,” he adds. “A larger opponent may be slower, or too reliant on their size so they can be outwitted.” He thinks back to Amira racing through tight corridors, and the low beam that had nearly taken him out as he pursued her. Her size can definitely work in her favor. “And your other senses can be just as useful in a hand to hand fight as sight would be.”

She seems to consider this, and he starts thinking how to teach her without her being able to watch him. They’re just going to have to get right into it, it seems. “Why don’t we start with how to throw a punch.”

He moves the small table in the living area out of the way to free up some room, before guiding Amira to stand in the center of the space. She seems more open to taking his lead than usual, which he takes as a good sign that she’s willing to learn this. She offers her hand up patiently as he teaches her to close it into a fist - thumb tucked appropriately outside her curled fingers and facing downwards. He holds his gloved palms out for her to strike, moving to catch the arc of her fist before she throws herself too far forward.

It takes several dozen tries before she is able to ground herself and strike at his palm with any kind of force, but then he ups the ante by circling her, seeing if she can seek out the target of his gloves first while he is speaking to her and then only through the listening for his movements and the sound of his breath. She does fairly well when he’s talking to her, but shortly after he goes silent she overextends and hits his bracer instead.

“Ouch!” She’s whipping her hand back and tucking it under her arm with a pained look across her face. 

“Let me see.”

She reluctantly brings out her hand and he takes it carefully within his own to inspect it. She doesn’t react to him gently uncurling her fingers so it’s nothing too bad, perhaps a little light bruising. Her hand is so small in his own, but it remains steady in his grasp. He hands it back to her and begins tugging off the armor from his arms and chest. 

“We’ll work up to fighting an armored opponent, but no point in breaking your delicate fingers tonight. Just don’t aim too high. The nose, jaw, and neck are all vulnerable points but not if your opponent is wearing a helmet.” It won’t be pleasant for either of them if she knocks into his. He tries not to think about how ridiculous it is this whole idea is. She’s still in her dress, first of all, though she doesn’t seem to care about her nice clothes. And he’s not entirely sure why he’s teaching a daughter of the Empire to fight, except that he suspects she’s not so much destined to join the Imperial war machine as she is to be a magnet for trouble whenever he’s not around.

So he goes back to circling her, allowing a few punches to get past his arms to strike at his chest and shoulders. She’s slowly getting better at this, as he continues offering suggestions with each pass.

“Keep your profile as small as possible, present as few targets to your opponent as possible.”

“Go for the area below the ribs, less protection there.”

She pauses. “Won’t I hurt you?”

“Not a chance.”

He really ought to have known better than to give an opening like that. Her punches may not have much power behind them yet, but she purposefully overbalances herself and throws her entire weight into a hit at his stomach that he’s left himself wide open to. It manages to send them both crashing to the ground, her shoulder slamming into his stomach and forcing out a pained grunt from him. 

He looks down to where she’s sprawled over him looking a little pained but also more than a little smug. 

“That wasn’t a smart move if you’re trying to escape your attacker.” He chides. He’s a little impressed with the unexpected move, but she’s already far too satisfied with herself for him to encourage her more.

“Who says I’m trying to escape?” She grins, shoulder still digging into his abdomen. But she doesn’t weigh enough to keep him pinned.

“I’m not teaching you how to win a bar fight, I’m teaching you how to stay safe.” It’s easy enough to get them both back to standing, Amira is surprisingly pliant in her assumed victory.

“Do you know how to break away if someone grabs you?” 

“Who’s going to try and grab me when I have my very own Mandalorian shadow?” She smiles sweetly at him, and he huffs out what might be mistaken for a laugh but isn’t quite. He bites back his amusement.

“I’m serious.”

“Then show me,” she challenges. 

Still he’s careful as his arms wrap around her from behind. His hold is firm but he’s careful not to crush her. She tries to wiggle out of his grasp immediately, but all she manages to do is twist up the silky fabric of her dress. He simply tugs the fabric back into place so she doesn’t tear anything while she’s trying to escape.

The Mandalorian is surprised how easy it is to be gentle with her. He can’t remember ever having held back like this in a fight or a sparring match - even as a foundling his teachers never went this easy on him. And he recognizes that Amira is not nearly so delicate as she seems, but still he has no desire to be rough with her. Even when she’s challenging him like this. 

“Bend your knees and bring your center of gravity down, that’ll make it harder for your attacker to lift you up and it’ll make it easier for you to slip out of their hold.”

She wriggles down easily, and bends nearly in half around the arms at her waist. She’s nearly tugging him down with her.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to lift you on my back so I can flip you over?” She tries to explain as she keeps jerking forward in his grasp.

“I’m nearly twice your size, that’s not going to happen.”

“You said size didn’t matter.” She’s short on breath now from forcing her stomach into his locked arms repeatedly.

“I said it wasn’t always an advantage, not that you could flip me.” He should really just release her, but he’s afraid she’ll just fling herself into the hard floor. “You’re going to hurt yourself, yield.”

“No.”

“Yield!”

“No!”

His grip tightens, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly he’s on the floor, sprawled out on his back and staring at the woman who looks almost as shocked as he feels.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” She drops to her knees at his side, hands fluttering as if she wants to make sure he’s ok but not sure if she should touch him.

“Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry…” She continues apologizing.

He’s fine, just a little surprised. He’s had much worse than a quick topple over a small girl, but she looks terrified that she’s really hurt him.

“You’re not supposed to apologize to your attacker.” He lets out a tight laugh, and he can see her panic dying down. 

“You’re also not supposed to break your bodyguard on the first day...” She smiles weakly down at him.

“Wouldn’t want to do that too soon.” 

“No, that’s definitely something you save for at least the third week.” Her voice is lighter but he can see the tension that hasn’t quite left her. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” 

“I’m fine, I think my pride might even recover eventually.”

That finally brings out a laugh from her, and he can see the relief that floods her. Her entire posture relaxes as she hits back on her heels, and her hands stop their worried fluttering to rest in her lap.

“Good, because I’d hate to have to break in a new bodyguard.”

“I think you’d break any other bodyguard.” He huffs out, sitting back up. “We should try some elbow strikes.”

She grins once more. “I'm looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is already reading this work in progress, I'm going to try and update weekly and I've never not finished a story :)
> 
> Also thank you so much to the wonderful PlushyRobot who helped me make this chapter so much better and also drew Amira!!! I've embedded her portrait into chapter one but for anyone who missed it, she's here: https://i.imgur.com/nws3Bob.png


	3. Keldabe Kiss

On the third day they finally leave the compound. As they step outside the blast doors he unthinkingly offers his arm to her as they face the busy streets of the town. Amira, sensing this, immediately starts off without him as she had before. She hurries along the path she has long ago memorized, hands tracing along the sides of the pourstone buildings and neatly dodging known obstacles, leaving him to catch up with her. The city’s inhabitants mostly walk in the middle of the streets and only the occasional rambunctious child ever bumps into her - though she is far more patient with them than she is with him.

He finally falls into step with her. “Message received.”

She smiles. “Good, now give me your arm.”

“What?”

“We’re about to pass through the marketplace, and it’ll be faster if you lead.”

He’s tempted to say something back, about how she could have just taken his arm in the first place and not gone through all of this foolishness. But he recognizes she doesn’t actually need his help now any more than she needed it earlier - the marketplace is busy but not so much busier than the streets before, she could have easily navigated them on her own if she was this familiar with the town. This is simply her way of reminding him that she’ll ask for his help when she needs it or wants it.

All the same he’s pleased at the small show of trust she’s giving him, and he extends his arm once more for her small hand to wrap around his elbow this time. If anyone finds it strange to see a Mandalorian walking arm in arm with the slight woman, at least it sends a message to anyone who might be after her that she is not an easy target. Not that she seems to be in much danger here. Every couple of shops a new person calls out her name in friendly greeting, and she easily greets them back. They are far less friendly with him or with the Stormtroopers patrolling the area, though no one seems openly hostile.

“The studio is just past the butcher’s stall.” She announces, and he sees the stall just ahead of them. The smell has already reached them, however, and it’s obvious to him why she uses this shop as a marker to find where she’s going.

They arrive shortly at the studio of Master Pav Shrim. Apparently her teacher was too frail to make the trip out to the compound for her lessons, and so she had to come to him. But this frailty in no way diminished his musical talent. The Mandalorian had never heard a crwth played before, but it is surprisingly beautiful in his hands. Amira has some talent for the instrument, though he wonders why she doesn’t bring her instrument home to practice. He only half listens to their lesson, however, focusing on securing the entry and exit points of the building, and finding the best vantage point with which to watch them. 

Though the only other person who enters the building at any point is a skinny young man, barely into his twenties. While he doesn’t look like much of a threat he is carrying a large black case and the Mandalorian is quick to question his presence there at blasterpoint.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, kid.”

The young man looks nearly to tears before Amira comes to rescue him, placing a gentle hand on the Mandalorian’s arm, encouraging him to lower his blaster

“This is Tripp Joriouc, he has the lesson after mine.”

“Is that so?” He turns back towards Tripp.

“Yes, sir!” The boy stutters out. He sets down the black case in his hands, quickly unlocking it to reveal a crwth and nothing more.

“Thank you, Master Pav. I think we’ll be heading off now.” She addresses her teacher before turning back to her fellow student. “Tripp, always a pleasure to see you.”

And then she is tightening her holding on the Mandalorian’s arm to drag him out of the studio. 

“You certainly know how to make an impression, don’t you?” She chides as they reenter the street outside.

“I’m just doing my job.”

“And Tripp seemed like a threat to you?” She questions.

“In my line of work it doesn’t pay to underestimate people.” He’s already experienced the consequences of underestimating the girl beside him.

“Tripp and Master Pav are fine, they wouldn’t hurt a sand gnat. I’ve known them both for many years.”

“I still can’t leave you alone with them.”

“I’m not asking you to, just if you wouldn’t mind refraining from pointing a blaster at any more of my friends?” Her voice is firm but soft, and the lingering presence of her hand around his arm lets him know she’s not too upset with him.

“I’ll try my best.” He’s not making any promises, but he recognizes he may have been a little quick on the trigger here. 

“I still need to pick up a few things in the marketplace. Do you think you could hold off on threatening the shopkeepers for a little while?” She’s back to teasing him, so definitely not mad.

“I’ll do what I can.”

* * *

Thankfully none of the shopkeepers appear to be holding any strange black cases or weapons of any kind. Neridiaam isn’t a very large or populous planet, and up until now it had a long history of peace. There wasn’t much in the way of wealth or natural resources to fight for, and it wouldn’t even normally be interesting to the Empire except as an easily held base of operations within the Expansion Zone. At best it was a planet of peaceful artisans who turned the relatively worthless but highly abundant minerals into moderately priced stoneware and glassware.

But Amira bypasses most of the artisans in the marketplace, instead leading him to various food stalls - including, thankfully, a less foul-smelling meat stand than the one at the edge of the market. The baker’s stall smells even better, and each time Amira is careful to introduce him to the shopkeeper as a friend before he could begin his interrogations. By the time they reach the fruit stand he relaxes a little and stands back as Amira chats with the store owner, an old woman named Marva, and her red-haired teenage grandson whose name he immediately forgot. 

She spends nearly an hour there, picking out star fruit and horned melons by tapping and smelling each piece until she is satisfied, the whole time chatting with Marva and her grandson about nothing. He spends the hour surveying the market around them, looking for any signs of dangers but finding nothing to alarm him. In the end she safely walks away with a heavy basket of fruit, and far fewer credits than she began with.

“Do you really need that much fruit?”

“It’s for both of us.”

“I can take care of myself.” 

She shakes her head a little too broadly, and it reminds him that they already had this argument that first night when he tried to eat a rehydrated protein pack instead of sharing her dinner. After that he offered to help her prepare the meals, though he wasn’t good for much other than chopping things. But he hadn’t known she spent her own credits on the food as well.

“At least let me talk the price down for you.” He knows he won’t be able to offer her any of his own credits, but she always just accepts the too-high asking price at each stall. Maybe he could save her some credits that way.

“I’m fairly certain you trying to haggle would look a lot like armed robbery to the poor townspeople here. Besides, I can afford it.”

She can’t, but he knows better than to argue with her. He’s seen the small allowance Gideon gives her, and it’s far less than what he’s being paid to watch her. If this is what she spends on food he doesn’t think she has much to spend on anything else. Though what else she would even spend it on, he doesn’t know. 

* * *

He finally finds out on their third market visit what else she spends her remaining credits on. There’s a nearly hidden stall that sells old machine parts and data disks, where apparently she can occasionally pick up a cheap pre-Empire audio history - which explains the lack of censorship, and also why the shopkeeper slips the disks furtively into her hands while she is pretending to look at parts. Though she introduces the shopkeeper as a friend, the Mandalorian still sticks close during their exchanges.

He has an easier time at the jewelry shop, though as usual he thinks Amira overpays the woman there. It is a somewhat surprising indulgence for a woman who never even bothers to pick out her own dresses, or spend any significant time on her appearance. Though she is obviously beautiful, she doesn’t go out of her way to show this off. Her hair is always neatly pulled back from her face but it is never elaborately styled, and though her clothing is fine she never pays it any mind when rooting around the gardens or sparring with him. Most of the jewelry she picks doesn’t even seem to suit her. 

He can only describe her selections as clunky, not at all fitted to her small frame and delicate features. Instead of going for fashionably cut gemstones she seems to prefer heavier metals. He supposes a few ounces of silveridium or Ruusan copper is actually worth far more than some sparkly rocks, but he had never thought of jewelry purchases as practical transactions. 

At first he suspects she’s possibly being swindled by the woman who runs the shop. Amira spends a long time chatting with her, and she seems friendly enough so the Mandalorian gradually leaves them to their conversations, but he thinks maybe she is taking advantage of Amira’s sightlessness to pass off things she couldn’t sell otherwise. Except the metals are absolutely pure, and the craftsmanship is obvious in each piece. They’re just not what he expects.

“So what’s the appeal of all this, exactly?”

She considers his question for a moment, as if she had never really thought about it before.

“I suppose I just like the weight and the coolness of the metal against my skin.”

The Mandalorian tucks that piece of information away in his brain to add to all the other strange facts about this woman. 

* * *

They only go out to the marketplace on days where Amira has her music lessons, and even then they only stay out for a few hours. Otherwise she spends much of her time in the gardens or in her apartment, occasionally convincing him to tell her about some of his adventures or to give her another lesson in self-defense. 

It’s nearly two weeks before the Marshal comes by again, escorting Amira away for what she refers to as diplomatic training. This time Gideon remembers to dismiss him, ordering him back at his office in four hours, no more, no less. 

And for the first time in as many days, the Mandalorian is on his own. He expects to feel a sense of relief, or of freedom, having no obligations for the next several hours, but instead he is left feeling strangely untethered. So he fills his time with going to the shipyard, checking on the repairs to the Razor Crest until it is time to return to the compound, uncertain what else to do with himself.

Even so, he heads back a little earlier than necessary, in case there is trouble getting through the gates on his own. But there isn’t, and he arrives at the Marshal’s office nearly a quarter hour before the appointed time. The door remains closed to him, however, and not much comes through - just as it hadn’t before.

For some reason he switches on the sonic detector on the rifle at his back - he’ll blame it on being unused to the silence after so long without it. There’s no way to actually point the detector at the doors without bringing a bunch of Stormtroopers down on him, but it’s enough to amplify the sound of Gideon’s voice saying ‘I know that you can do this’ in a way that sounds more commanding than encouraging. Whatever Amira’s response is, the exact words don't carry through the blast door or the detector, but her quiet voice sounds strained. He considers whether to knock at the door, weighing the fact that whatever is happening in there is none of his business with wanting to make sure Amira is alright. In the end he justifies himself that standing here without alerting them to his proximity will look fairly suspicious, and raps carefully at the door to signal his presence and interrupt whatever is happening inside. He hears the sound of a small object clattering to the ground, and heavy footsteps approaching the door.

The door slides open to reveal the Marshal looking cold and composed, but the Mandalorian can read the frustration in his expression. “You are early. Leave and come back at the appointed time.”

Amira steps up behind him. “It is alright, Uncle. I am tired today, perhaps we could save it for the next lesson?” 

Whatever banthashit diplomacy she was learning here it’s clearly working on her uncle, who sends her off with merely a sigh of disappointment and an order to the Mandalorian to ‘not let this happen again’. As they walk away he notices that Amira doesn’t even look particularly tired, though she does seem to regain more of her spirit the further they get from the Marshal’s office.

* * *

Tired or not, Amira changes immediately into her sleep clothes the moment they get back to her apartment, before starting in on their dinner. She’s been doing that more and more lately, coming out in the mornings before she’s fully ready for the day or wandering around in her sleep clothes in the evening. For the first week or so she never came out of her room unless she was fully dressed for the day, and never changed back until she retired for the evening. At first he hadn’t even been aware she was still in her sleep clothes. They were just as fine as her daywear, though without her robe her arms and back were left entirely bare. And her night dress was much, much thinner. Thin enough that he often considered whether he should mention it to her.

But he never did. There was something about seeing her like this, a domesticity he thought he’d never enjoy but for some reason he did. He wasn’t used to people letting their guard down around him, or being a stable fixture in someone else’s life such that he saw them in these unguarded moments incidentally. Even with his previous lovers there had been a necessary distance, and he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which he was completely at ease in one of their places helping them to make dinner. He certainly wouldn’t have trusted Xi’an not to poison his food when he wasn’t looking, assuming she could even cook. And he knew it was completely ridiculous that even seeing the faint outline of Amira’s body through her night dress at this point felt more intimate than seeing other women naked, but here he was.

And he thought to himself that she must have some kind of awareness of the effect her night dress had on him, particularly after he refused to give her any more self defense lessons unless she was fully dressed. Thankfully she had changed into a (thicker) tunic and wrapped pants - clothing from her life before, apparently. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to think clearly with so little fabric between them, and he suspects she knew that was the reason he had her change, because she tried this tactic again several nights later.

Now he can find no excuse to ask her to change, so he simply admires her form beside him as he helps her prepare their meal. She’s entirely unselfconscious under his gaze, even though she always seems to know when he’s watching her. He’s trying not to stare too much, however, and attempts to distract himself with meal preparations and thinking about anything else. 

Like tonight he wonders what the Marshal even knew about diplomacy to be teaching his niece - he’d certainly never noticed any particular politesse in the man, and the Empire didn’t exactly use diplomacy to spread their regime. Perhaps she was simply part of some scheme for his own advancement? Something tightened in his chest at the thought of her being used as a pawn by Gideon, but she would never let that happen if she knew about it. Does she even know what she’s being trained for? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her just what the Marshal was training her to do when she interrupts his thoughts.

“Taste this,” she holds a spoon with some kind of green sauce over to him. 

“I’m sure it’s fine.” His hands are busy slicing vegetables and so he doesn’t even reach for the spoon. Ever since she had caught him taking a bite of something or another beneath his helmet without waiting to go to his bunk she has been less than subtly encouraging him to feel more comfortable eating around her. She never asks him to remove his helmet, but he knows there’s no real dignified way to eat with it on - whether she can see it or not. And he’s fine eating alone. But since she’s already broken the silence, it’s as good a time as any to ask -

“How do Mandalorians kiss, anyway?”

He should be shocked by her question, but he isn’t (though he is thankful that his mouth is not full of green sauce when she asks). She often asks surprisingly direct questions, usually whenever he’s thinking about something completely different, and this isn’t even a particularly new line of questioning. She had asked him about sex several days ago, in the context of whether he could remove his armor with a partner. He remembers she asked him this in the middle of the marketplace, and then just as abruptly went over to talk to Marva, leaving him sputtering awkwardly behind her. He hadn’t responded to her in the midst of so many people, but later he simply restated that he did not remove his helmet in front of anyone, and she accepted this answer with an enigmatic smile. 

He thinks about giving her the same answer today, but instead he finds himself replying “not like you do.”

“How do you know how I kiss?” She teases, “and please don’t tell me Mandalorians kiss with their fists.”

“No, nothing like that, though the Keldabe kiss can be used as an effective combat tactic.” He nearly laughs at the exasperated look on her face, obviously she’s heard the term before. “The _kov’nyn_ is also used as a friendly greeting, or something like a kiss.”

“So you headbutt your lovers?” She’s starting to sound a bit worried. He had just taught her a backwards version of the _kov’nyn_ as a way to escape an attacker, but that’s not at all what this is.

“No, it’s much gentler than that. Here - “ 

It’s easier to show her than to explain. He sets down his knife to reach up and cup the sides of her face, turning her to face him. As usual her eyes don’t quite meet his but she does stop her stirring, so he knows he has her attention. Slowly and carefully he bends down, mindful of the fact that she has no helmet of her own to protect her, to press the cool beskar against her waiting brow. He imagines he can almost feel the warmth of her skin seeping into the metal where their foreheads meet. He continues holding them in place for several long breaths before just as carefully pulling away. He notices her eyes have fluttered shut at the contact, and they don’t immediately open as he draws back. 

“And so that is how you greet people?” Her voice is softer now though some of her earlier amusement creeps in.

“Only with those we share a close bond with.” He answers truthfully.

“Does that mean we share a close bond?” She grins up at him.

“I think you’ve already called me your ‘Mandalorian shadow’.” 

Her grin fades. “You know I don’t really think of you as my shadow, don’t you?”

“I know.” 

And just to bring back her smile he dips a spoon into the simmering sauce, tucking it up under his helmet and declaring it needs more salt. She beams at him knowingly, and allows him to slip away to his bunk with dinner. 

With his gloves removed he finds himself reaching up to touch where his helmet had pressed against her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to tumblr for teaching me about the Keldabe kiss and assuring me that Mando COULD kiss baby yoda's little forehead.


	4. Hot Hands

The Mandalorian is slowly growing used to Amira’s acquaintances with the townspeople. He knows he’s not exactly a sparkling conversationalist himself, so he can’t begrudge the time she takes to speak with others in the marketplace. Or even with the other crwth student, Tripp something-or-other, who has finally stopped looking like he’s about to soil himself every time he spots the bounty hunter.

He’s considering how much he now misses that reaction as Tripp moves more comfortably into Amira’s space over the course of their conversation between classes. He’s only half-listening to what they’re talking about from his vantage point at the other end of the room, but he’s very aware of the kid’s hand as it keeps reaching towards Amira’s own before just as awkwardly retreating. She has a small smile on her face that signals she’s perfectly aware of this little dance, though she doesn’t appear to be helping him decide one way or another.

“I was thinking maybe we could meet up sometime. Like not at the studio, you know?” 

The Mandalorian definitely catches that, despite the fact it was mumbled, practically squeaked out, by the little womp rat. He’s back over at Amira’s side in an instant.

“I don’t think so, kid. She’s not leaving my sight.” He nearly growls.

“Oh, I didn’t mean. I just wanted to, and she could…” 

The Mandalorian is secretly pleased with the return of the boy’s terror, as he takes several steps back and pulls back his wandering hand to rub awkwardly at his own arm. Though he recognizes some of that anxiety is due to the woman at his side. Her response is far gentler.

“I’m sorry Tripp, he’s right.” The bounty hunter inwardly delights at hearing those words from the normally stubborn girl. “I can’t really get away much now. Maybe some other time?”

“...Sure?” That one was definitely a squeak.

* * *

“You didn’t have to scare him quite so much, you know.” She chides as they leave the studio. She easily brushes past the arm he extends for her and heads towards the marketplace on her own

“I just told him the facts. I wasn’t trying to scare the kid.” He defends, catching up to walk by her side.

“Mmm, I’m sure.” She hums out teasingly.

“You know what he was asking for, right?” He’s half-hoping to shock her a little with the insinuation, but he should have known better than to try.

“Yes, it was fairly clear what he was asking me.” She tilts her head in obvious amusement at the question.

“You didn’t actually want to go off with him, did you?” Shit, what if she actually liked the kid? He didn’t really seem like her type, but what exactly did he know about her type anyway?

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter one way or another - for the foreseeable future it’s just you and me.” As far as answers go, it’s pretty oblique for her. But she smiles a little, and finally threads her fingers around the crook of his elbow, so he knows she’s not really upset with him. He tries not to wonder why this matters so much to him.

When they reach Marva’s fruit stand, she releases his arm once more and he finds himself already missing the warmth of her fingers. But he takes his usual position propped up against the other of the end of the stand, his posture ensuring that most other market goers give Amira a wide berth to run her hands along each piece of fruit to her heart’s content. Thankfully her conversation with Marva is far more mundane.

“Do you have any snapberries today? I was thinking they’d be nice in some flipcakes.” He watches as the old woman gently guides her searching hand over to the small fruits. “And did you hear they were shipping a bunch of Kore melons off-world, nearly half a dozen of them.”

“Oh that’s a real shame. They belong here with the people that grew them.” Marva tuts in disappointment.

“Well they’re not leaving until this evening, from the local port. I bet if you and some of the other sellers round up a few credits you could probably buy out the pilot and the two, maybe three, merchants trying to sell them off-world.”

“Perhaps we could manage that, I’ll see what we can scrounge up. Now how about some nice figs?” The old woman guides Amira once more and she smiles at the feel of the soft fruits in her hands.

The Mandalorian tries to focus on the market around them, their conversation not doing much to keep him from reflecting on his earlier reaction. His over-reaction, really, to a clumsy kid asking Amira on a date - in his somewhat chastened state he’s a little more generous in naming the kid’s intentions with Amira. The Marshal had never explicitly banned her going to meet with anyone, as long as the Mandalorian stuck nearby. Though he grimaced at the thought of spending an evening watching Tripp making moon-eyes at Amira. Thankfully his mind spared him imagining her response to this scenario. Amira didn’t really seem the type to moon over some guy.

Though that didn’t really explain why he was so bothered by the idea she might be interested in Tripp. Physical appearances probably didn’t matter all that much to her, and the kid was nice enough if a little wet behind the ears. He’d observed him long enough to know he was perfectly harmless, and there was little to no chance of him being a threat. He could probably even give them some degree of privacy together, if she wanted it. Still, his skin felt too tight at the idea of it, and he noticed the fingers of his free hand were clenching into his palm unconsciously, pulling into a fist.

Thankfully he was kept from exploring this reaction too deeply by the sounding of Marva’s goodbyes. He shook out his hand and stepped over towards Amira. But before he could reach her, Marva’s red-haired grandson - who couldn’t have even been more than twenty if he was a day - rushes over to envelop Amira in a tight hug, practically lifting her off the ground. The Mandalorian nearly dives in to snatch her back from the boy, but Amira is hugging him back with a soft smile, patting at the fiery hair and pressing a small kiss to the head that is tightly tucked into her shoulder. The gesture is merely friendly, but something in the Mandalorian clenches at the easy affection between the two of them.

* * *

“One of his friends is in a rough way right now, I think he just needed the hug,” Amira explains easily once they’re a little ways from the fruit stand, her fingers carefully kneading at the clenched muscles of his arm.

“If he doesn’t want to be in a rough way himself he probably shouldn’t go grabbing at women with heavily armed bodyguards.” He suggests, only somewhat jokingly.

“Coming from a culture that shows affection by headbutting one another, surely you can understand the concept of bear hug?” She teases, squeezing gently at his slightly more relaxed arm.

“What’s so special about the Kore melons anyway?” He asks, in an obvious attempt to change the topic away from his newfound overprotectiveness.

“Hmm? Oh, they’re a delicacy here,” she answers after a brief pause. “They’re only ever exposed to moonlight so they’re more delicate and sweet than the Sola melons. Only a few are grown each year and they’re usually eaten at weddings as a symbol of good luck for the new couple.”

“Are they really that special?” He’s always amazed at her passion for such small pleasures.

“I’ve never had one. I’ve never even been to a wedding here. But Marva tells me they’re wonderful.” She smiles.

“She does seem intent on keeping them here.” He notes.

“It’s an important tradition. I’m sure Mandalorians have something similar?” 

He considers how to respond. “Usually the families gift weapons. I’d say that’s better luck than the fruit.” 

“Please tell me you’re not serious.” She bumps her hip into his, daring him to tell her it’s the truth.

“It definitely makes for a more exciting reception.”

She lets out a surprised little laugh, “ok now I know you’re just teasing me. You don’t really bring your weapons to a wedding, do you?”

“It is our way.” He answers truthfully this time, then adding less seriously “they’re rarely used though. Unless someone objects to the marriage.”

“How often does that happen?” She sounds almost worried at the idea.

“I wouldn’t know. There aren’t many of us left to have a wedding.”

“I’m sorry,” she turns to press her forehead into the pauldron at his shoulder, an attempt at a sideways  _ kov’nyn _ .

“Not your fault.” He offers back, and realizes he truly means it. Though she is a daughter of the Empire he’s never blamed her for what they had done to his people. Not everyone gets to choose their families.

“Most Mandalorian weddings are private ceremonies, just for the couple. But they do have parties afterward, same as most of the galaxy. They probably even have fancy fruit.” He offers, trying to bring back the lightness from earlier.

“Yes, but how did they eat it?”

* * *

They don’t usually work on self-defense on the days she has her other lessons, but she wants to work more on her response times. He thinks this is in part to assuage his worry about others being in her personal space, but he won’t admit it does help somewhat. She’s doing pretty well with her awareness of his location as he moves around her, nearly silent, but she’s learned to recognize the change in the air around them even from his subtle movements. There’s no way she didn’t realize what Tripp was clumsily aiming for earlier, and she wouldn’t have been caught completely by surprise by the hug either. Which of course means she knew and didn’t even try and move out of the way, which is the part that helps him less.

“Maybe you should try striking me.” Her words are soft but they still come as a shock to him.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“I can’t really learn to block if you won’t try to come at me.” She challenges.

“I’ve taught you how to break free from a variety of holds.” 

“Yes, but not how to block a punch thrown at me.”

“You’re not going to be able to block a punch blind, and I’m not going to hit you just to prove that.” He usually avoids bringing up her disability, but it’s important she recognizes her limits in a fight.

“You let me hit you all the time.” She’s apparently unbothered by the reference to her lack of sight, merely the perceived unfairness of their training.

“That’s different, you can’t really hurt me.”

“I beg to differ.” She smiles, and he’s reminded of that first time - her fist and her shoulder digging into his gut, and winding up on the floor not once but twice that evening. He wasn’t really hurt by any of that though, whereas he could do some serious damage if he ever misjudged his strength with her.

But she’s not backing down, and so he finally pushes at her left shoulder with a single gloved finger, knocking her back slightly. 

“Wait, I wasn’t ready!” 

This time he presses his finger into the opposite shoulder, and she holds her ground, but her arms don’t move anywhere near where they’d need to be to block it. It feels ridiculous standing here and just poking at her, trying to get her to dodge or get her arms where they need to be to block the path of his finger. He’s trying to play it safe, going for her arms and shoulders, and once for the middle of her forehead - her indignant gasp makes him chuckle, much to her chagrin. She manages to dodge one or two of the pokes to her arms, so he aims a little further inwards.

Just as soon as his finger reaches her she’s clutching at her side, erupting into a startled giggle.

“I don’t think this is going to work.” He’s not sure he could handle this turning into a tickle fight, for reasons he’s really not going to explore right now.

“Perhaps I have another way we could work on my reaction times,” she offers. “Sit with me.”

With that she gracefully steps out of her shoes, falling into an easy cross-legged seat and arranging her dress around her knees. The Mandalorian follows a little more slowly with navigating the weight of his armor, but he works himself into the same stance across from her. She shifts forward until their knees nearly overlap.

“Did you ever play hot hands as a kid?”

“Not that I remember?” He searches his memory for the name but draws a blank.

“Sometimes they call it different things on different planets. Just hold your hands out to me, palms down.”

He does as he’s told, and she brings up her own smaller hands beneath his to hover palm up.

“Wait, can you remove your gloves?”

Normally, he wouldn’t. They’re a part of his armor, and there’s usually no reason to take them off. But he’s hard pressed to deny her such a small request, especially one that he’s certain won’t hurt her, so he tugs them off and sets them at his side before bringing his hands up in front of him once more. “Alright.”

Hers immediately come up to rest beneath his again, and this time without the gloves between them there’s nothing to dull the warmth of her smaller hands radiating up into his palms. They’re not quite touching, but her fingers occasionally brush at his palms as she settles into place, the light callouses of her fingertips tickling at his skin. He lets out a surprised breath at the drag of her middle finger against his wrist, but then she’s figuring out exactly how close she can get to his hands without touching him, and all that’s left is the faint feeling of warmth.

“Now I’m going to try to smack the backs of your hands, and you’re going to try and pull them away before I can reach them.”

“That sounds...really easy.” He could just slip his hands back right now, if he cared to.

“The catch is, if you move your hands back but I’m not trying to slap them, I get to slap them anyway. The point is only to react to the real thing, not any feints.”

He supposes that does make sense, and it is a pretty good way to work on her speed and using her other senses to clock her opponent.

“And what happens if you succeed?”

“Then we switch.” She grins.

“I’m still not going to hit you.”

“It’s just a little slap to the back of the hand, you won’t really hurt me, I promise.” Occasionally she’s just so earnest it’s impossible to argue with her.

“When do we start?”

He feels the immediate sting of a slap against the backs of his hands. 

“Right now,” she answers innocently, taking his hands to flip them beneath hers. Now her palms are resting above his.

He tries to slowly swat at her hands, but she pulls back easily. With each attempt he picks up a little more speed, until he finally manages to catch her fingertips without hitting too hard.

“I think we’ll count that.” She decides, flipping her hands palm up once more.

She catches him the first try, even without cheating this time. It’s back to him again, and even at a reasonable speed she’s tough to catch.

Amira is apparently much better at this than he is, either because he’s not going as hard as he could, or perhaps because her sightlessness actually gives her an advantage here. She never once falls for any of his feints, though he sometimes falls for hers. It’s impossible to bluff with her, so he focuses on simply catching her.

After several rounds the backs of his hands and palms are already tingling.

“You say children play this game, but you thought the  _ kov’nyn _ was strange?”

“I never said it was strange. I found it quite nice, actually.”

It occurs to him the way they’ve positioned themselves to maximize their speed has pulled their upper bodies forward, and the top of his helmet hovers a scant few inches from her own forehead. It would be so simple to close the gap between them, it probably wouldn’t even disrupt their game. But he doesn’t move forward.

Before, he had merely been demonstrating the  _ kov’nyn  _ for her because she had asked. Now he has no such excuse. He considers briefly that if he had just done it again the following morning he could have introduced it into their routine as a friendly greeting, and he wouldn’t have needed an excuse to do it any time he saw her. Though that wouldn’t have helped him here, when there were no greetings or farewells to be had. Just the warm hovering of her hands near his, and the occasional sting of her slaps against his knuckles. It was the closest thing he’s had to skin to skin contact in a long while, and he finds himself enjoying the bite of it more than he should. But that was mostly due to her clear and open delight every time she scored a hit, and her soft laugh on the rare occasions he managed to (gently) smack her hands. They both knew he was holding back, but she didn’t put up too much of a fuss, seeming to enjoy the game aspect as much as the chance to improve her reaction time.

She manages to get even better as the game progresses, and they start increasing the distance between their hands to make it even more challenging. She has a little trouble finding his hands past about 5 inches apart, but up until then she had the upper hand against him, quite literally. He was starting to consider she might be able to handle him striking at her with the buffer of a few inches to keep him from actually connecting with her delicate frame. Then she could safely practice blocking without him worrying he might hurt her. Though that was something to consider for another night, now that he was finally winning a few hands.

Even though she’s starting to lose, Amira still seems to be enjoying herself. So the Mandalorian tries to clamp down on the little niggle of guilt that he’s probably enjoying this more than he should be, especially when he thinks she could be out with her actual friends right now. It’s been so long since he’s sought out someone else’s company, and she never complains, so he hadn’t really recognized until today how much she was missing out on. She’s a beautiful young woman, and obviously there are a lot of interested young men out there, but she’s here playing children’s games with him instead. It feels selfish, for him to be enjoying these quiet nights with her when she can’t possibly be content with this. He starts to consider again how he could grant her more time with other people, give her as much space as he contractually can, and how to bring this up to her.

“I wasn’t really going to say yes to Tripp, you know.” She casually remarks, as if they were already having this conversation. 

The Mandalorian takes a moment to catch up with what she’s telling him, and she manages to catch his hands even from a six inch distance. He shakes out the slight sting before turning his palms beneath hers, not entirely sure what he’s supposed to say back.

“Before you came over, I was thinking of a polite way to turn him down. Then of course you had you to frighten him away.” She teases.

He goes through a dozen possible responses, how he didn’t really scare the kid  _ that _ much, how it wasn’t his intention. before finally settling on, “why?”

“Why did you try and scare him off? That’s a question between you and your conscience.” She smiles in a way that’s far too knowing. It’s troubling how easily she can see through him, sometimes.

“Why turn him down?”

“Tripp is very sweet, but I know how he feels about me and I didn’t want to lead him on.”

The Mandalorian feels something unwind in his gut at the answer. He tells himself he’s just relieved not to be the one keeping her finding love or whatever. 

“What about the kid from the market?” He asks without quite intending to.

“Hmmm?” He watches as her face goes from confusion, to understanding, to laughter, “Marva’s grandson? He’s barely nineteen, I don’t think he even thinks of me like that.” 

It always amazes him that Amira has no idea how she looks to others, and how much attention she draws. 

“Plus I’m fairly certain he’s in love with his friend, the boy I was telling you about earlier?”

He lets out a noise that sounds like an affirmative, vaguely remembering her mentioning something like this. He practically grabs at her hands trying to catch them at this distance, and merely winds up tangling their fingers together before she pulls away. She’s generous as always in counting this.

“Besides, we’re having a nice time on our own, aren’t we? It’s not so awful being cooped up with me?” Her tone is still teasing, but he can sense it doesn’t carry her usual confidence. And as much as he never thought he’d be spending his time like this, he has to admit it is pretty nice. 

“No, it’s not so awful,” he smiles beneath his helmet, and watches her mirroring one brighten even further.

He is sorry when the game has to finally end, but the tiny sparks and tingles left behind by her quick little hands lingers with him the rest of the night.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a regency heroine getting so excited over having our hero remove his gloves ;)
> 
> We always called this the slap game as kids, but I know everyone has their own names for it - the weirder the better!


	5. Trust Fall

Gideon comes by late the next afternoon to collect Amira - far later than he usually does. The Mandalorian has yet to discern any clear pattern for these lesson times, other than the fact they typically start earlier. But the Marshal appears to have been busier than usual this morning, and the Madalorian notes he also seems far more agitated. Though this does not appear to be directed at Amira or himself. In fact he says very little to either of them as they all walk down to the Marshal’s office.

Once there, the Mandalorian is not dismissed as he has been the past few sessions. 

“Today you will remain and guard the door,” Gideon commands. “There was an unfortunate incident last night - a transport bound for the work colonies was attacked and the prisoners released. Somehow the rebels knew both where and when to attack. I have spent my morning interrogating all staff with access to this information, but I suspect someone may be spying on this office. You will detain anyone who approaches.”

The Mandalorian can’t imagine anyone being stupid enough to approach with him stationed by the door. “Why not just lock down the quarter and check any passcode attempts?”

Gideon considers this with a shrewd expression. 

“Yes. This strategy would also leave you free for several hours. Tell me, bounty hunter, how quickly do you think you could recover one of the prisoners? Perhaps we could glean more information that way.”

Less time than it would take for one of Amira’s lessons, he thinks. If they haven’t been found yet - and he can bet the Stormtroopers have been scouring the town in typical Imperial fashion - that means they’re probably scattered to the mountains by now. And mountains, he can handle. All you need is the high ground. But he hesitates to answer the Marshal. It’s one thing to babysit an Imperial, it’s another to actually help them maintain their hold on this planet. Though who knew if any prisoner he caught would hold any real information?

Amira’s plaintive voice fills the space his reticence leaves. 

“Uncle, with the rebels and the prisoners still out there, I’d feel much safer with the Mandalorian here with us,” she pleads softly, in a manner the Mandalorian has never heard from the woman before. A wave of protectiveness washes over him at the seeming vulnerability of her words.

They apparently have a similar effect on Gideon, who quickly agrees. “We’ll continue with the lockdown of this quarter, and you can monitor the doors for any sign of attempted override. Only my own code will unlock those doors.”

The Marshal shuts off around fifty feet of corridor surrounding his office, leaving the Mandalorian feeling slightly caged despite the fact it’s about the same amount of space as Amira’s apartment - and far more than he usually enjoys in the Razor Crest. But there’s nothing to do for the next several hours except pace the hallway outside the Marshal’s office, and it leaves him feeling restless. 

He doesn’t dare use his sonic detector again for fear of being thought a spy. But after so many weeks together he’s grown used to the sound of Amira’s soft voice drawing him out of his own head, and the silence now feels lacking. He’s left to wonder once again what exactly he’s doing here.

He also has to wonder just why Gideon is so worried about someone listening in on his lessons with Amira. Whatever he’s teaching her in there, it’s unlikely he’s discussing the time and location of prisoner transports, or the ins and outs of the compound’s security. Not that he has any real clue what her lessons entail. At best he can hear just the barest hint of the Marshal’s voice, which sounds as if it is delivering a long lecture. 

Maybe they’re in there discussing the future of the Empire? That might be of interest to a rebel spy, though he can’t see it being of much interest to Amira. She’s careful never to openly criticize the Empire, but it’s obvious from her interest in uncensored planetary histories and in the way she treats the people of the town that she’s not exactly championing it either. Maybe the Marshal is in there trying to convince her? That would certainly account for the amount of time they spend in there, as much as why Amira never seems to gain anything from these lessons that the Mandalorian can discern. 

With several long hours to consider the topic, this remains his best guess. That Amira is simply humoring her uncle, perhaps even intentionally wasting his time, seems to fit the woman he’s coming to know far better than any of the other possibilities. He nearly smiles at the idea of her secretly defying the Empire in this small way.

* * *

When the lesson finishes he searches her face for any hint he’s guessed right, some nod to the fact that this is all a humorous game to her, but her expression is as calm and passive as it ever is around her uncle. It’s not until they’re back out in the courtyard, the suns already lowering toward the horizon, that her usual spirits return. He never would have anticipated how much he would miss the sound of her laugh, even if it’s at his own expense. 

She’s holding up some kind of fluffy bloom she’s plucked off a tree, asking him to “make a wish!”

When he just stands there in confusion, she explains, “you blow on them - or I can blow on it for you - and when the seeds disperse you send your wish with them.”

Another children’s game, it seems, but she seems intent on it.

“Are you ready? Here we go -” and then she’s holding the flower close to her lips and blowing gently at it, sending the seeds into the air. He finds himself observing the shape of her lips as she blows rather than the path of the fluffy seedlings, which the wind swiftly brings back to fly at him. Amira laughs at the sound of him vigorously brushing away the bits of fluff from his clothing, but she is careful to turn to the other side when she plucks up one of the flowers for her own wish. She never reveals what this wish is, however, or asks for his as they walk further along the garden path.

He watches as she runs her fingers along the familiar plants and trees, occasionally reaching upwards to trail the branches above. And that’s when he notices the faint purple mark where the mantle of her dress falls back to expose her shoulder. Without thinking, he comes up behind her to draw the mantle back further, examining the bruise as her arm falls to her side.

“Mandalorian?” Her tone is questioning, but she doesn't pull away.

“What happened?” He grits out, fingers hovering over the pale discoloration. She turns to face him, though she doesn’t move far from his fingers.

“You mean before or after you started undressing me in the courtyard?” The corners of her lips twitch in amusement and he allows his fingers to press gently beneath the bruise.

“To your shoulder.” He clarifies, not letting her words distract him.

“Oh? I must have bumped into something.”

He’s never seen her seriously bump into anything in the time he’s known her. “You don’t bump into things.”

“You’re kind, but I bump into more things than you think - it’s why I hold your arm in the marketplace,” she admits. “I also bruise easily.” 

That part he knows to be somewhat true - he had panicked the first time he noticed their self-defense lessons had left faint red shapes along her arms that took several days to fade. But he has been both more careful and more vigilant ever since, and hasn’t noticed any other bruises - including this morning.

“Just what do these lessons of Gideon’s involve?” He demands, suddenly rethinking all his earlier notions.

“A lot of meditation mostly - though I think that’s more for his benefit - and then he quizzes me on things I should know how to do," she answers easily, in a clear attempt to soothe his worries with her tone. “Why?”

He remains silent, the implication obvious.

“This was my own doing, not his.” She assures him, but he’s not entirely convinced. Prior to this, the only good thing he had to say for the Marshal was that he seemed to look after his niece’s safety - but now he’s not so sure.

She gives him an uneasy smile before taking a long breath. 

“I know what my Uncle’s role here is - what he does, what kind of man he is. I know what he’s capable of.” She confesses carefully but deliberately, with an edge to her voice that seems to indicate she really is fully aware of what he is. “But I need you to trust me when I tell you he’s not capable of hurting me. You don’t need to worry about me.”

She brings up her free hand to touch at the side of his helmet, her expression one of soft assurance despite her unexpectedly harsh words for her guardian. He catches himself leaning a little into her touch, letting some of his anger and worry slip away. 

They stay locked like that for several long moments. He keeps glancing between the certainty of her face and the bruise on her shoulder, finally acknowledging that it doesn’t really look like any kind of defensive injury. In fact it’s more of a strangely perfect circle. Like she was hit by something spherical at low speed - or like she bumped into something round. He lets out a long breath, finally releasing her arm.

She smiles sweetly at him, fingers brushing lightly at his helmet as she draws away, almost like a caress. 

But then those same fingers are reaching to probe at the bruise, “it’s not even that bad, I can barely feel it.”

And it really isn’t that bad, now that he’s over the shock of seeing where it mars her delicate skin. Still he pulls her hand gently away from where she’s prodding it, not wanting her to injure herself further.

“Always such a mother hen,” he frowns at the descriptor, “come on, let’s go see if there’s any more fruit on the loquat tree.”

And then she’s tugging at his hand, leading him along the path to the now familiar tree. Amira has been taking full advantage of its fruiting season, visiting it almost every time they’re out here. By now they’ve picked nearly everything within reach, but still she wants to try. Clearly she’s back to her usual self.

“I think you need a taller bodyguard.” He quips, relieved to see she really does seem fine.

“I think you just need to give me a boost.” She grins.

Without a word his hands wrap around her soft waist to lift her into the air, delighting in the soft squeak she lets out as she leaves the ground. But as much as she clearly hadn’t been expecting him to immediately pick her up, she really had wanted a boost. After that initial moment of surprise he can see her hands go straight to work, running along the branches and feeling for any of the small fruits. Though they indeed had picked it pretty clean. All that’s left still looks too far out of reach.

“Wait, I have an idea - move us a little closer to the trunk.” He’s a little confused by the suggestion but he follows it all the same - despite the fact that most of the remaining fruit is out along the edges of the tree.

“Yes, here is perfect.” She announces, gripping onto a low branch and he feels her waist sliding upwards out of his hands before suddenly there’s a knee on his shoulder, and he’s forced to grip at her hips to hold her steady. “I’m not too heavy, am I?”

“You weigh less than my armor.” He answers truthfully, though it’s not really the most comfortable position. She can’t be very comfortable either, with her knee wedged between his pauldron and the edge of his helmet. He tries to ignore the fact that this puts her inner thigh directly against the side of his helmet.

Things get both better and worse as her other knee comes to the opposite shoulder, balancing her weight a little more evenly but also bringing the fabric of her skirt to cover his helmet, making it impossible to see much of anything. But just as quickly both her weight and the fabric are gone, and he’s staring at one small foot as it dangles in front of him.

He looks up to see she’s got a knee on the lowermost branch and she’s already trying to pull herself up higher, her dress rucked up around her knees.

“What are you doing?” He calls up to her, even though it’s patently obvious what she’s attempting to do.

“I’ve always wanted to do this - it’s just like climbing a ladder, but better!” 

She thankfully stops at the second branch up, anything above that not looking like it would bear much weight. He anxiously watches as she settles into a careful seat atop it, swaying a little as she tries to get her bearings. But then she seems totally fine, balancing easily and delighting in being able to reach out and touch all the nearby leaves and branches. He watches as her fingers run along the rough bark, exploring where the smaller branches connect back to the one she’s sitting on. He nervously waits below as she reaches out even further towards the edges of the tree where the fruit buds out, jumping as if to catch her every time she teeters even slightly.

But Amira has her other hand carefully looped around a sturdy branch keeping her steady as she manages to pluck two of the fruits - which she eats happily and seemingly without a single concern for her own safety or the worries of the man below her.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun, now how are you going to get down?” He finally asks, hoping this will happen sooner rather than later.

It takes her several moments to respond.

“I...hadn’t considered that aspect.” 

He’s not enjoying the sudden alarm in her voice, and it’s doing nothing to alleviate his own nervousness.

“Look, I’m coming up to get you - ” he can probably reach the lowest branch if he jumps a bit.

“I don’t think these branches can hold both of us…” she cautions, and unfortunately she’s not wrong. With all of his armor there’s no way the branches can support him.

“Do you trust me?”

“What?” She calls down anxiously.

“Do you trust me?” He repeats.

“...yes,” she answers softly, a moment later.

“Then I need you to jump.” 

And to his relief she doesn’t question him on this, other than to check that he’s ready for her. She merely waits for his signal and then she’s jumping down into his arms, leaving herself completely at his mercy. 

He does his best to gentle her fall - the drop itself isn’t very far but it can’t be comfortable landing on his armor. Though she doesn’t complain about battered metal beneath her, merely wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her forehead to his helmet.

“My hero,” she laughs, though she’s a little shaky still as he helps her back to her own feet. 

He tries to keep his mind from lingering on the easy press of her skin against his beskar in favor of making sure she’s alright. 

“Lets go inside and get you some real food.” He suggests, hoping the draw of an actual meal might keep her from any more worrisome stunts.

Surprisingly, she acquiesces. And even more surprisingly, she takes his arm as he guides them back to the apartment - something she never does when they’re in the compound. But no one is in the hallways or the lift to see her arm wrapped around his, or the way her head leans so easily against his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've climbed a tree in the dark, and in a midi dress (separately), so I'm pretending this is totally possible for Amira to do too. Also I promise there is plot happening if any of you have managed to catch some of the hints, but poor Mando is very distracted ;)


	6. Levitation

When they arrive back at the apartment, he assures her he can start dinner while she washes up. He noticed a few stray leaves and small twigs are still tangled up in her hair and clothing, and he nearly reaches to pluck them out himself before he thinks better of it. She’s already accused him today of fussing too much over her, even though she no longer seems to mind as much as she once did. Still, he wants to offer her some space if she needs it, and give his own nerves a chance to settle. 

Though she hadn’t been in any real danger earlier - at worst a fall from that height might have resulted in a few sprains or a broken bone or two, nothing too serious - he had been surprised to find how much it troubled him to see her in distress. In all these weeks together he has never once seen her worry about her own safety, and now twice in one day she has asked for him to help her. The Mandalorian is used to being asked for his help, even to people begging for it, but not one of them had made his chest clench up like seeing her panic up there.

He forces his body to relax a little as she closes herself in the fresher, focusing instead on his promise to start dinner. He heads to the now-familiar kitchen space, pondering the ingredients on hand. He’s still not much for cooking on his own, but he can certainly chop up some meat and vegetables to add to the bone stock she’s already seasoned and stored up for them, temporarily slipping off a glove to slice up their market purchases the way he had watched her do countless times. In less time than it takes the sound of the shower to go off, he’s already got the meat browning and the fragrant pot of vegetables simmering, leaving him with little to do but watch over it as it bubbles.

She emerges shortly after, hair in the soft braid she usually wears to bed, and a long robe cinched around her nightdress. With practiced ease she’s nudging him to the side with her hip and taking over their dinner preparations. She pinches off a few small papery leaves from one of the herbs she keeps on hand in the kitchen, rolling them between her palms to break them up and release their spicy aroma before adding them to the browning meat. She also adds in a few pinches from some of the unlabeled containers that sit near the stove, stirring to make sure each piece is evenly seasoned before adding it to the stockpot. He’s always fascinated by how effortlessly she finds the spices she’s looking for, even in their closed containers, and seems to know the exact right time to add everything together. But she doesn’t seem to notice the oils that splatter up to the edges of her sleeves, which is when he realizes.

“Why are you wearing that?”

He sees her pause, and he knows he’s not wrong for asking. He’s seen her in this robe a dozen times, but usually only in the morning and never while they’re cooking. The long sleeves drape nearly to the floor and generally get in the way of preparing meals, or doing much of anything.

“It’s a little chilly in here.” She finally answers.

“You’re standing by a burning stove,” he reminds her of the obvious.

“I’m fine.” 

“Are you?” He asks more seriously.

She continues stirring in lieu of answering, perhaps hoping he’ll drop the subject if she’s quiet long enough. But he’s just as stubborn as she is, and she has to know he won’t. Which is why she eventually lets out a breath, setting down the spoon and tugging at the tie of her robe to let it fall to the floor.

It’s immediately apparent why she tried to cover up. Half a dozen small scrapes and bruises litter her arms, obviously the result of his armor catching at her delicate skin. They’re not that bad, but he still feels a rush of guilt at the sight of them. He should have removed some of his armor before catching her, but they had been out in the open - and he can admit to himself he wasn’t thinking entirely clearly at the time.

“They don’t hurt at all, I promise,” she assures him. “I’m certain they look worse than they really are.” 

He doesn’t ask why she hid this from him, she must have known how he’d feel seeing the result of his own carelessness. But now that he’s aware he can’t seem to stop himself.

“Are there more?”

“I’m fine, really,” she appeases, smiling softly at him. But it does little to soothe his guilt.

They find themselves at another standstill for several long moments.

“They don’t have anything to do with you.” It takes him a moment to realize she’s admitting she has more bruises and scrapes hidden from him.

“That’s not what I asked.” He’s marginally relieved not to be the source, but the fact more exist is deeply troubling to him still.

He’s taken somewhat aback when she hops up onto the counter behind them, sticking her legs straight out and forcing him to stand between them. When this puts the small bruise at the top of her left foot into view, he realizes she’s giving into his stubborn questioning once more. It doesn’t feel like much of a victory, however.

Still, he takes her small foot into his hand to inspect the bruise that sits across her metatarsals, and the pale scrape along the side of her outer ankle. He guesses these are from the tree, rather than from him, but that doesn’t stop the twinge of guilt at the fact he’s allowed her to get hurt at all. 

Her other foot taps at his hip, and he takes it into his other hand to see that it’s completely free of even the slightest scrape. He’s both relieved and once again amazed at how easily she invades his physical space, how much she allows him into hers. He’s had to check others for injuries before, but it had always been a cursory endeavour. Practical. He’s never been quite so intent with his study before.

His eyes continue upwards to inspect the rest of her. The small strip of bare skin above her ankles that he can see also appears unharmed. Her leg is still mostly covered by the fabric of her night dress, but he can start to see a faint darkening at her knees. Without thinking, he starts to push the material aside.

“Mandalorian?” Her voice comes out as a shocked laugh, and he finally realizes what he’s doing and what this must look like - or feel like, to her.

“I just need to check your knees.” He assures her, though she never makes any move to try and stop him. Somehow he doesn’t really expect her to.

“Alright, Doctor,” she teases, and then sits back more easily on the counter to leave him to it. He’s struck once again by her trust in him, even if he’s not quite sure he deserves it.

He’s more careful this time as he lifts the fabric upwards, taking care not to touch her bared legs more than necessary. He drapes the gathered fabric across her thighs, allowing it to fall between the spread of her legs around him. Her legs are still stretched straight out, and with a tap he encourages her to gently lower them. Her shins and calves appear injury free, and the worst of it seems to be the skin right below her knee. He remembers that she had tucked her skirts up to bring her knees onto the branches, and he can see where the bark had scraped at her skin and the bruising has started to purple.

He drops to one knee in front of her to look more closely, and he can hear her gasp above him.

“I need to check for splinters.” He explains, looking up to see her eyes have fluttered shut.

She laughs a little breathlessly, “you know I can feel a splinter right? It’s just a few bumps and scrapes, really. I’m tougher than I look.”

He knows this to be true, and he can see for himself that she’s no worse off than when they went a little hard practicing her self defense, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He inspects her knees until he’s fully satisfied, running careful thumbs upwards to make sure he doesn’t miss anything, before standing.

His eyes continue to roam over her thighs, still draped with her rucked up nightgown that neither of them moves to correct, up to the slight swell of her hips and her waist. He’s thankful to see no sign of bruising there, the thin fabric of her nightgown not fully obscuring the skin beneath. He pointedly averts his eyes away from her chest as he continues his inspection upwards, refusing to notice the fact that she is either feeling somewhat chilled in the warm air of the kitchen or it’s him she’s responding to. He distracts himself by intently studying the lines of her collarbone for injury. Thankfully her neck and shoulders appear free from any harm other than the round mark from earlier. 

“Hands.”

She doesn’t even question the command, simply holds out her hands to him, palms up. He turns them gently in his own gloved ones to double check for any wood splinters beneath the skin. He can see the empty scrape at the base of her thumb where she must have taken care of one on her own, and it’s somewhat reassuring to know she really can feel them herself. At least he doesn’t have to worry about the parts of her still hidden from him. 

He keeps holding onto her hands as he gazes over her once more, taking in everything. The relaxed amusement of her expression, the way a few tendrils of her hair have already escaped from her braid. How small her hands feel in his own but how fearlessly she sits here in front of him. Her thighs are still spread around him, knees bumping at his hips but making no move to push him away. If anything she’s leaning slightly closer to him, and he realizes he’s moved nearer as well. His hips are pushing the fabric of her nightgown up even further, and he’d only have to let himself fall forward a few inches to be pressed up against her completely. Or he could just as easily slide his hands along her slender waist and pull her into him, feel all of that warm skin barely hidden beneath the flimsy fabric of her night dress. It feels as though she’s drawing him imperceptibly closer with every thought, but all it takes is one more look at the scrapes along her arms to remind him that he’s supposed to be looking after her. Not...whatever this is. 

He takes a step back, finally releasing her hands. She drops them back to the counter, shaking her head with a laughing sigh. 

“I told you I was alright,” she smiles knowingly, before jumping down from the counter and practically into him, despite his moving back. But she’s graceful as ever even in this, and though she brushes against his front on her way down she never risks toppling either of them. 

He feels as though it would be far too easy to knock him down just at this moment. Even more so when she lifts her head to brush a kiss, a real one, against the side of his helmet as she walks past him.

“Come on, I think dinner’s ready for us.”

A few minutes later he’s back in his own quarters, helmet off and pressing his bared fingers to the spot her lips would have touched, his dinner forgotten.

* * *

He wakes to the sounds of muffled screams coming from Amira’s room.

He’s out of his bunk in an instant, pausing only to grab his blaster before rushing to her. He can hear several crashing sounds from within as he forces the door open. The room itself is still completely dark, and only the moonlight from the living room windows trickling in illuminates the wreck inside. Everything that isn’t bolted to the floor has been tossed around, impeding his swift path to the girl inside and whatever is causing her screams.

But there’s no one else there. His vision adjusts as he reaches her bed, only to find Amira alone, thrashing against the bedsheets. Her screaming is muffled because she’s somehow twisted herself until her face is pressed into the pillows. His mind finally catches up to what’s happening and he grasps at her shoulder, trying to carefully shake the girl awake. Something hits the side of his head - hard - which he can only assume is a thrashing limb, though he can’t figure out quite how they’ve reached him in her current position. But he’s not worried about a little knock to the head when his primary concern is getting Amira out of whatever night terror she’s currently lost in.

He doesn’t want to shake her any harder than he already has so he tries calling out her name. It still takes several tries, and multiple assurances that she’s safe, before she finally settles. Sometime during all of this she’s turned to clutch at his arms, and her grip starts to loosen as she wakes but she doesn’t let go.

“Mandalorian?”

He realizes she isn’t going to release his arms anytime soon and shifts to sit down on the edge of the bed, giving her free rein to inspect his arms and hands - currently free of their usual armor but familiar enough from their self defense lessons. 

“It’s just me, you were having a nightmare.”

He’s able to see her face now, turning upwards from the pillow to face him. Her eyes remain half closed and he can tell the fog of sleep hasn’t quite left her, though she no longer seems fearful. Though she does appear somewhat confused.

“You sound different.”

He freezes.

“Your voice sounds...clearer.”

In his haste to get to her he realizes he has left his helmet in his bunk. The apartment was so dark he somehow hadn’t noticed its absence until just now. He itches to rush back and retrieve it, but she’s still clutching at his arms, and he’s loathe to leave her like this.

She seems to understand what has happened, however. Seemingly unconsciously, her hand reaches upwards towards his face, searching. He presses it carefully back towards her.

“You’re not wearing your helmet,” she whispers.

“I heard screaming.”

“What if someone was attacking me? What if they saw you?” She sounds almost as panicked as he feels right now, but he pushes the feeling down.

“No living being can see me without my helmet,” he recites in answer.

“And anyone who does see you can’t stay living?” She finishes the thought. And it’s true, he would have killed anyone who had laid a hand on her. 

She continues, more softly, “but I can’t see you, isn’t it ok if…” 

“...It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.” He answers more firmly, pressing both hands back towards her so he can stand to leave. It’s a conversation he’s had with himself far too many times, without a satisfactory conclusion. The girl is disarming enough as it is, even without being able to see his face. He can’t forget his helmet again.

He’s nearly at the door when she calls out to him.

“Thank you, Mandalorian. For saving me once again.”

He turns back to see her eyes closed but her lips smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long to update, I'll try and get back to a more weekly update schedule. The pace of the story will also pick up a bit, I did promise y'all some eventual smut!


	7. Dive

The Mandalorian starts noticing it more and more over the next several days - the ways in which they both naturally gravitate into each other’s orbit. The nature of this job being what it was, it wasn’t any particular surprise they spent a lot of time in one another’s company. But at some point Amira stops racing ahead of him, and he no longer tries quite so hard to stay out of her way. Outside the compound walls or within those of the courtyard, she will always thread her arm through his, or take hold of his hand - though more often than not it was her guiding him, her stubborn independence never lessening even though she had relaxed a great deal more around him. 

Inside the apartment, they prepare their meals hip to hip, her small hands guiding his whenever they try something new. He in turn will gently guide her through pushing hands - the best technique he has discovered to work with her on self-defense and reflexes with no chance of either of them doing any real harm to one another. It was soft in a way he wasn’t accustomed to with his training, but it suited them. And so he tries to ignore the intimate feel of the movements, her bare hands and arms pressing against the spaces between his armor as they move through their practice. 

He should be used to it by now, the feel of her so close to him. He realizes that lately she’s grown more affectionate with him, even outside the practicalities of sharing their space and working together. Whenever she’s feeling particularly pleased with him, or in the even rarer instances when she feels the need to apologize, she’ll press her forehead or the barest hint of a kiss to whatever part of him is closest - usually his shoulder or the bottom of his helmet - always taking him by surprise. 

The Mandalorian isn’t sure what to make of this, except he thinks she may need this. He sees the way her hands linger on all the plants and trees in the courtyard, but how rarely she touches other people. He’s never witnessed any affection between her and her uncle, or anyone else in the compound. She’ll accept the occasional hug from a few folks she knows in the marketplace, or her crwth instructor, and a few times he’s seen her kiss Marva’s cheeks, but their time together is so limited. Still, even the most casual touches seems to light up something within her, and he never even thinks to deny her the small affections she shares with him. Inwardly, he can admit he thrives on it as much as she does.

And it may be enough for him, these small touches. But somehow he suspects it could never be enough for her, even though she never asks for anything more. He’s surprised to discover she never even asks him to remove his helmet again, in nearly a week since he interrupted her nightmare. But when another music lesson and market visit is canceled by the Marshal, he’s unsurprised to find her growing a little restless by that evening. 

It wouldn’t have been so immediately obvious except for the fact he’s had plenty of time to study the girl in the nearly two months he’s been guarding her. Despite her sometimes playful nature, there is a deep stillness to her underneath it all. Every movement is perfectly choreographed to maximize her knowledge of her environment or please her senses - he’s never seen her fidget before. It’s just the barest twitch of her hands, the way she keeps moving like she’s preparing to stand from the couch where they’re both currently sitting, not quite touching. It reminds him of the way she looked before she somehow talked him into that first self-defense lesson. He wonders what she’s about to suggest this time. Maybe another game?

But as usual, she suggests the unexpected.

“Let’s go somewhere. Somewhere outside the compound.” 

“It’s already dark out.” He mentions, looking out the window, forgetting she doesn’t divide her day into light and dark and the fact won’t really matter to her. He’s pretty sure it would matter to the Marshal, however.

“Even better.” She smiles, in the way he can’t quite classify but thinks may mean trouble for him.

“Isn’t there a curfew?” Most Empire ‘pacified’ planets have strict curfews during the early stages of occupation, to stymie any resistance. He’s not sure how long Neridiaam has been under Empire control, but with the problems they’ve been having it wouldn’t surprise him if it was still in place either way.

“Are you planning to tell my Uncle?” Her smile is a defiant one, this one he knows well.

“I’m not getting paid to spy on you,” he shrugs, despite the fact this is probably a terrible idea. He’s here to keep her safe, not help Gideon with his questionable parenting skills. “But how do you plan to get past the Troopers at the front door?”

“That’s simple, we don’t go out the front door at all.”

* * *

Apparently Amira’s thorough knowledge of the compound’s maze-like structure also includes every service corridor and storage bay, so she is able to lead them completely unseen to the delivery bay at the side of the compound. First through a floor that doesn’t seem to exist on the lift’s controls, but she enters an override code that brings them right between the ground floor and the one above it, filled with a multitude of ventilation shafts and power generators she’s far better at dodging than he is. On what seems like the opposite side of the compound she has him pull up a piece of grating from the floor - from there they’re easily able to drop into the delivery bay below, climbing down onto several abandoned storage containers to reach the floor. Two Stormtroopers guard the large bay doors, but not the smaller personnel door off to the side where they are. He watches for them as she enters another override code. 

They’re out of the compound in under 10 minutes.

“How do you know all the codes?” He doesn’t bother asking how she knows the building’s layout, or the Stormtrooper’s routes. She’s far too observant for anyone else’s good.

“They all punch in their codes in front of me, forgetting that I can hear the touchpad tones.” 

The Mandalorian considers this, the low musical hum of the old-fashioned keypad he never really noticed before but now realizes is an obvious security flaw. All it would take is catching a maintenance worker entering one of the codes and anyone could gain easy access to the hidden parts of the compound. It was a troubling thought, but he supposes that most of the staff here wouldn’t be so careless around anyone but the harmless girl in front of him. Well, mostly harmless. The Marshal had warned him that Amira had a tendency to sneak off from her bodyguards, he supposes it’s a sign of her trust that she’s allowing him to follow. He tries to focus on this show of trust to distract himself from staring too closely at the outfit Amira has chosen for sneaking out.

He’s never seen her in anything form-fitting before. Typically she wears the loosely draped gowns of an Imperial woman of rank, or her flowing (if somewhat translucent) night clothes. Even for their sporadic training sessions she generally prefers something loose-fitting and comfortable. Tonight, however, she wears a rather sleek tunic over fitted leggings, an outfit that clearly wasn’t purchased by her guardian. Despite the tunic’s long sleeves, her shoulders are left bare, and there’s an opening in the fabric at the top of her back and another right above her breasts that keeps drawing his gaze without his quite meaning it to. He instead tries to keep his eyes on her face. With her hair in a simple braided crown and most of her jewelry left behind, she manages to look like any other local woman out for the evening. 

Assuming anyone was actually allowed out after dark.

The streets are dimly lit and empty ahead of them, and it’s pretty clear there’s some kind of curfew in place - that or this small planet just isn’t very lively once the sun goes down. But he doesn’t see or hear any nearby patrols, and there’s no visible lights from security drones, so clearly the curfew isn’t enforced that stringently. Maybe they don’t have the resources. It’s been obvious over the past few months that despite the strategic location of this base, the Empire doesn’t send a lot of support this far out. Or maybe it’s all been raided by the rebels on its way in. 

Either way, he throws out a few of the worst case scenarios he’s been considering ever since Amira suggested this. He had of course tried to talk her out of the idea, but as usual her stubbornness is hard to match when she has her mind set on something. And in truth he’s been itching to get out of that apartment just as much as she has. Several times he’s found himself almost reaching out to her, wanting to see just how she’d respond. Somehow sneaking out of an Imperial compound seemed the safer option. The Mandalorian wonders once again what his life has become since taking this job.

“Where to now?” He finally asks, now that they’ve moved a little distance from the compound, but not in any particular direction.

“I’m not actually sure, I’ve never been out this late.” Based on how easily she’d snuck out tonight, he finds this hard to believe, but she’s not rushing off to wherever they’re heading so maybe she really doesn’t know. “Jessamyn mentioned a place on the southside, down towards the shipyards.”

He thinks Jessamyn is the name of the woman who sells jewelry in the market. The directions aren’t much to go on, but the town isn’t overly large. Hopefully it’ll be obvious once they get closer. He allows her to thread her arm through his and leads them southward. 

Along the way he keeps an eye out for any patrolling Troopers, but they only encounter a single pair coming through the market street. Amira apparently hears them before he can spot them, because she tugs him into an alleyway and he only catches a glimpse of them passing from behind an empty stall.

They’re more careful after that, however, and manage the rest of their walk without event, though he can hear several patrols on nearby streets. His new concern becomes how quiet all of the buildings are, and the likelihood there’s nothing to find out here. He worries more than he should that Amira will be disappointed by this trip, though she seems content enough walking along with him. Maybe it will be sufficient for them to merely get out of the compound, to breath in the unrecycled air and walk off some of their restless energy. 

Moonlight illuminates the sleeping town - a soft bluish white from Kor and an almost pink light from the planet’s next largest moon. The two moons sit on opposite sides of the sky so the colors hit different parts of each building around them. The light from either is not quite bright enough to block out the stars, however, which are numerous overhead. The Mandalorian finds himself strangely wishing Amira could see what he was seeing, but when he looks over at her she’s smiling like she knows just how nice it is out here.

They wander across what feels like the entire southside for perhaps a half an hour, as long as it took them to get down this way to begin with. All of the buildings seem shut up for the evening, and the only sounds to be heard are the wind in the trees and the chirps of night insects, perhaps the occasional noises of a family still preparing for rest inside. But just as the Mandalorian is about to suggest they turn back, Amira halts them.

“Do you hear that?” She smiles up at him.

He mostly just hears a rather enthusiastic twilight cicada, but when he stops to listen he starts to hear the faint sound of music. And far more voices than he’d expect to find in any family home. They’ve stopped in front of a restaurant that is clearly closed and emptied for the night, but they follow the noise into the alleyway beside it, finding themselves at a rather nondescript side door. Here, the music is even clearer though still faint, and Amira reaches out to knock without much hesitation. The Mandalorian has no time to consider whether or not this is a good idea.

The eye of a gatekeeper droid opens but doesn’t pop out at them. He’s surprised to find one on a civilian building on an Imperial-occupied planet - they won’t exactly deter a Stormtrooper. But he supposes it will give the people inside a chance to get away if one is spotted. He wonders how they’ll respond to a Mandalorian bounty hunter at their door.

Apparently it’s not enough to trouble the patrons within, as the door opens to them after only a few moments of being scanned. 

Inside, it’s like any other bar he’s seen on the outer rim - which is perhaps why his presence, and his weapons, don’t seem to raise any alarms. Neridiaam is a planet mostly populated by humans, but here he sees a number of different species all drinking together, plus an Ortalan leading the band in the corner. It’s a mix of local townspeople and some shadier characters that have likely been trapped by the Empire’s presence here - or perhaps they came intentionally to take advantage of that presence. Nothing fuels the black market like a restrictive but distant government. 

It occurs to him again that this might be a terrible idea.

He scans around the room, judging whether any of the patrons look to be a threat. So far he hasn’t encountered any attempts on Amira’s life, but if there are rebels out to get her this seems as likely a place to find them as any. Amira, however, seems completely unconcerned with the possibility and tugs him further into the din. 

“I think this is the place,” she smiles back at him.

No one really seems to take any notice of either of them - with the exception of a few looks of appreciation directed at Amira’s outfit - and so he allows himself to relax fractionally.

He leads Amira over to the bar at the center of the room. It’s a little exposed but it turns out to be the best vantage point to survey the place. And it’s the only place where there’s currently an empty seat. In fact there’s only the one, which he offers up to her. She takes his arm to lift herself up into it and he leans around her body like a shield. 

He watches her as she fully takes in the place. She seems generally pleased with it, ears turned towards the band in the corner which is surprisingly decent for a dive like this. He notices most of the people at the bar actually seem to be enjoying themselves, which sets it a bit apart from the outer rim establishments in his experience. Though there are also plenty of tables filled with rough-looking characters and hushed conversations. He doesn’t clock a lot of weapons out in the crowd but there are enough to keep him alert. Still, he has several of his own and he’s fairly certain he outguns anyone else here. But there are other threats to watch out for.

“What’ll you have?” The bartender slides over to them.

“I’ll take a Corellian brandy, if you have any. Mandalorian?” She turns to him.

“I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” One of them needs to stay alert here. 

She nearly laughs when he inserts a small probe from his gauntlet into the drink that is brought to her, but she allows him to check for any common poisons before he’s content to let her drink it. Still, he keeps an eye on her to make sure she drinks it slowly. He hasn’t seen her have more than a small glass of wine on occasion, and with her slender frame her tolerance will be much lower than his. 

Thankfully she doesn’t seem to be trying to hurry through her drink, savoring each small sip as she listens to the music and sounds of conversation around them. She looks far more relaxed here than she had in the apartment, and even though he’s tensed for the smallest indication of a threat, he’s also shed some of that earlier restlessness. He has a job to do here, and something to focus on other than the soft skin that peaks out of Amira’s top, or the way her body instinctively curves into his larger frame as he tries to block her off from everyone else.

However his shielding is apparently not quite sufficient to ward off any attention, as several patrons are still glancing over at the girl. A Balosar actually stands to approach her, but a steady look from the Mandalorian has him sitting back in his seat. Unfortunately, another woman further down the bar completely ignores his glaring, working her way over until she’s standing next to Amira’s unguarded side.

“Can I buy you a drink?” The woman’s voice is throaty and self-assured as she leans into the bar. The Mandalorian frowns to see Amira turning towards her.

“She already has one.” He answers for her. 

The woman merely raises an eyebrow at him, before turning her attention back to Amira. “Then how about a dance?”

Amira perks up at this. “Are people dancing?”

“They will be,” she deems, sliding a hand over Amira’s free one. Amira, surprisingly, allows it. 

She looks back at him, and he can tell she’s intrigued by the idea. Something tightens in his gut.

“Don’t worry, your bodyguard can still keep an eye on you from over there.” The woman teases, and his hands nearly reach for his blaster. 

He has to remind himself the ‘bodyguard’ comment is likely a joke about the way he’s hovering over Amira, or perhaps this woman has seen the two of them traveling in the marketplace before. There’s no reason to suspect she knows any more than this, or that she’s any kind of threat to them. He doesn’t detect any weapons on her, and though she is tall, she doesn’t have the spare build that would indicate a rebel fighter or an assassin. He thinks Amira herself might actually have more muscle at this point than the other woman, and there’s no obvious reason to feel threatened by her.

Except that she’s taking Amira’s hand in her own, and directing them over towards what might be a small dance floor near the band.

“Mandalorian?” Amira turns back to ask him - for what he’s not entirely sure.

“I’ll watch you from here.” He assures her.

“You could join us?” She offers with a small smile.

“I don’t dance.”

The woman with her looks completely unsurprised by this announcement, but Amira looks like she’s considering it. But then she’s being led away by the taller woman into the crowd. He never quite loses sight of either of them, but he finds himself tensing until he can see them more clearly in the open space nearer the band.

The tension comes rushing right back when the woman wraps her arms easily around Amira’s waist, pulling her in until she’s wrapping her own arms around the other woman’s shoulders and neck. They move effortlessly together to the music, and more than a few eyes have turned their way. As she predicted, several others also start dancing alongside them. But none of the couples are nearly as attractive as the two in the center, and it bothers him more than it should how good the two of them look together.

It shouldn’t surprise him that she’s an excellent dancer. She moves as gracefully here as she does in anything, and she responds to her partner as if they were of one mind. When the other woman’s hands shift down to grasp at her hips, her own go easily to tangle in the woman’s short hair. Amira’s eyes are carefully shut and he can see from here that she’s completely lost in the music, and the press of the other woman’s body against her own.

It’s obvious this is what she’s been needing, the answer to her earlier restlessness, to the way she’s been reaching out to be touched. He tries not to think about being the one who could have given it to her. He’s not much for dancing, but he knows they already move well together. Knows she responds favorably to his touch. That she trusts in him. Which is why he always holds himself back. They’ve already grown closer than he could ever have predicted when taking this job, and she’s already started to allow herself to be vulnerable in front of him. He can’t take advantage of that, not when he knows he can’t give her what she needs. In just a few weeks he’ll be dismissed, and then she’ll be pulled further within the Empire’s core with her uncle - going where he can’t follow. Giving into temptation now will only make it harder later, and he can’t bring himself to risk it. Risk her. She’s already under his skin in a way he knows he’ll never fully recover from. 

So he pushes down on any inappropriately possessive feelings as he continues watching them dance together. Amira finally looks relaxed out there, in a way she hasn’t in many days, and he hopes this is enough for her. He’s not quite sure what he’ll do if the other woman tries to take her home.

The possibility of this scenario seems more and more likely as they continue to dance together, and he can see whispered words exchanged between the two of them. Amira turns towards him, pale eyes not quite meeting his gaze and her expression unreadable from where he stands. 

The two women talk a little more, and then Amira is moving towards him, slipping easily through the crowd back to where she left him. He realizes he needs to think quickly - how to keep her from trying to leave with the other woman. What excuses he could use that she would actually listen to. Not that there are many. 

He’s just about to start when she arrives in front of him with an amused expression, “you can relax, Mandalorian. I already informed Nyla that I couldn’t go anywhere without you.”

He looks over to where he realizes the other woman - Nyla - has already found another dance partner. Not nearly as attractive as Amira but they seem to be getting along quite well.

“She didn’t take it well?” 

“Actually she said she was happy to let you watch.”

He nearly chokes at the response and feels his skin heating beneath his helmet. This is not the answer he was expecting.

“I told her that was about how you would respond to the suggestion.” Her lips are twitching at the corners in a way he’s learned means she’s trying not to laugh at him. “And don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He tries not to read too much into her statement, or the fondness of her expression. There’s a slight sheen of perspiration now coating her skin from dancing, and he absolutely does not track the single bead of sweat that trails down between her breasts. Or the way she bounces a little to get back into her seat, signaling to the bartender.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” She turns to him.

“Can’t drink on the job.”

She frowns at this, but doesn’t debate it. She orders a small cocktail for herself, and he’s relieved to see she won’t be imbibing too much either. He recognizes he’s standing in the way of Amira really enjoying herself in more ways than one, but he can’t bring himself to feel too badly about it. Luckily, he’s spared ruminating on it much more by a familiar voice calling out Amira’s name.

It’s not much of a surprise to find Jessamyn here, considering she was the one who mentioned the place to Amira. “Come join us,” she urges, taking Amira by the hand and drawing her towards a booth nearer the entrance.

“Go ahead, I’ll keep an eye on things from here.” The bar is still the best vantage point, and he wouldn’t be able to watch the entrance from where Jessamyn and her two less familiar friends are sitting.

“I won’t be long,” she promises. “I know this can’t be much fun for you.”

He’s about to remind her he’s not actually supposed to be having fun, but there’s no point in trying to convince her of that. And she’s already being led away to sit next to her friend.

He watches them for a while, trying to give her some privacy but his eyes unconsciously read the lips of Jessamyn’s friends, who seem to be having some kind of lover’s quarrel, which is of no interest to him. Amira is unfortunately turned away from him, blocking Jessamyn’s face from his view, so he goes back to watching the entrance and the additional exit he noticed tucked behind the band. He’s so focused on watching the doors and the people nearest Amira he almost misses the woman who comes up next to him.

“Care for a drink?” She places her arm near his on the bar, and his first thought is to wonder if anyone here knows a different line. 

Still, not many are bold enough to approach him looking like he does in full Mandalorian armor, and she’s certainly not an unattractive woman - even if she’s not the one who currently demands his attention. So he turns down the offer of a drink, but continues to chat politely with her when she doesn’t take his refusal as an immediate signal to look elsewhere. 

She’s nice enough, and pleasant to look at - and doesn’t ask too many questions he can’t answer. They mostly discuss the smallness of Neridiaam, and how she hopes to one day leave it. He tells her a little about some of the other planets he’s been to, and somehow ends up telling a story about capturing one of his bounties on Riflor and the near disaster that had been.

The sound of the woman’s laughter draws Amira’s attention back in their direction, and inwardly he’s a little pleased at this. He hadn’t intended for it to happen, but he enjoys the brief look of surprise on her face. She raises her eyebrows at him from across the bar, and he nearly laughs himself.

The woman apparently catches the look between, and seems to recognize she’s not going to have his full attention. But she doesn’t seem upset by it, just carefully pats at his arm and tells him “it was nice meeting you” before melting back into the crowd.

Amira seems to wrap up her conversation with Jessamyn as well, hands clutching one another’s as he reads promises to talk again tomorrow on their lips. And then she’s moving back to find him right where she left him, alone once more.

“Let’s get out of here - I think I have an even better idea,” she smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like force-sensitive is just another word for pansexual, Disney/Lucasfilm can come fight me!


	8. Sabacc

“So what is it you’re looking for in here exactly?”

Slipping back into the compound had been slightly trickier, as it was more difficult to check for Stormtroopers behind a durasteel door rather than in front of it. But still they managed to get back in undetected, and were now standing in what he might consider a rec room - if the Empire actually cared about things like the well-being of its recruits - looking for anything stronger than the half-bottle of wine Amira had in her apartment. Since he had refused to drink while they were out, Amira insisted they go back to her apartment instead. Which is why they are now raiding the small kitchen/sitting area in the middle of the night. He’s not sure whether or not to be surprised how easily he finds several handles of Kashyyyk ale tucked behind a false panel in the wall. He takes only one, hoping its absence won’t be noticed. 

He’s thankful no one else has tried to enter the room while they search, but Amira keeps looking for something else. She rifles through each of the lower-level drawers, and he hopes there’s nothing sharp in any of them, as much as he’s also hoping for a speedy exit.

“Found it,” she smiles, holding up a deck of cards. He shakes his head at her enthusiasm.

“Come on then.”

She allows herself to be led out of the room, laughing at his hurry, but the Mandalorian isn’t keen on getting caught stealing from Stormtroopers. The ale he tucks beneath his cape as they walk through the halls, though Amira just carries the cards out in the open. They pass the occasional Trooper on the way back to her apartment but are generally ignored. 

Though Amira might be used to being ignored by Imperials, he won’t let his guard down just because they’re treating him in the same manner for now. In the end they’re still his enemy, and potentially one or more of them may be Amira’s as well, if whatever threat to her is coming from the inside. He wonders if Amira worries more than she lets on. He's noticed she never takes his arm or his hand in front of any of the Stormtroopers, nor does she do anything that might distract him from guarding her - though she does stick close to his side. He thinks it’s probably a good thing she never does these things in front of her uncle, either. 

He can’t imagine the Marshal approving of their friendship - if that’s what you’d call it. The Mandalorian isn’t even sure he’d be wrong to disapprove, though he’d never be able to convince Amira of the need for professional distance. He can’t even seem to convince himself. He’s already in far too deep.

They manage to make it back to her apartment without incident, though the smile that spreads over her face as the door shuts behind them reminds him he’s not fully safe yet.

“Do you know how to play sabacc?” She asks.

“Do you?” 

Of course he knows how to play, but he’s not sure how she’ll be able to.

“You’ll just have to tell me what cards I have.”

“Doesn’t that give me a pretty big advantage?” She can’t exactly bluff if he knows what her cards are.

“Well you’ll have to tell me what yours are too,” she laughs. “No bets, no bluffs, just whoever can get the closest to 23 without going over wins. And the loser takes a shot.”

She’s already making her way to the kitchen to grab two small glasses for the both of them, while he is left wondering why he’s even considering this.

“I’m not taking off my helmet just to play drinking games with you,” he makes clear.

“Of course not,” and then she’s reaching into one of the kitchen drawers. “Here we are.”

She drops a straw into the second glass.

He can see the practicality of it, but still he grimaces, “not exactly the most dignified way to take a drink.”

“Well luckily no one here can see you,” she teases, taking the glasses and the deck of cards over to the small table in front of the couch. 

Instead of sitting on the couch, she kneels on the floor in front of it, inviting him to do the same on the opposite side so they’re only sitting a small distance apart.

“You pour and I’ll deal,” she decides as she shuffles the well-used deck.

He pours out a shot for himself, and a much smaller one for her, thinking she’s already had most of two drinks tonight already. She lays out two cards for each of them, face down.

“What are we starting with?”

“You’ll have to turn them over,” he tells her, hands still occupied with their drinks.

She reaches over to flip his first, arms moving easily around his as he sets her glass in front of her. It seems they both had the same idea. Luckily they’ve gotten pretty good at moving around one another. He takes his own glass and sits back as she flips her own cards.

“You have the Three of Sabers and the Ten of Coins. I have the Mistress of Staves and the Two of Sabers,” he tells her, adding the numbers in his head. “13 to 15.”

“Shall I add another card for us both, then?”

He hums out an affirmative, curious more to see how she plays the game than really considering their hands. But he probably should have thought about it more, as she lays down the Ten of Flasks in front of him and the One of Coins in front of herself.

“14, 25,” he tells her.

“I think that means you have to take the first shot,” she grins over at him.

Drinking Kashyyyk ale isn’t the most pleasant of experiences at the best of times, and the straw only prolongs the burn of it down his throat. But it’s worth it for the pleased look on Amira’s face as he goes along with her game. He wonders if she’s figured out by now just how much she has him wrapped around her little finger.

“Want to try again?”

She’s already shuffling their cards back into the deck and dealing out new hands. The cards were put back into the deck upside down, but he doesn’t bother to correct her, merely reaching over to flip the card sitting in front of her that is now lying face down.

“Mistress of Sabers for you, and the Nine of Coins. Three of Coins and Five of Flasks for me. 22, 8.”

“I can add, you know,” she teasingly reminds him.

“We’ll see about that once you’ve got a shot or two of Kashyyyk ale in you,” he challenges, though really he hadn’t been certain how well she knew the non-numerical card values. Apparently she knows the game well enough.

“That’s  _ if _ I actually lose a hand,” she boasts back, clearly still enjoying her single victory.

“Since we know each other’s cards it’s purely a game of luck at this point.”

“Well I happen to have very good luck,” she smiles mysteriously. “Another card?”

“Sure.”

She hands him the Idiot card. 

He doesn’t even bother to read it out to her before he’s asking for another, not wishing to do anything that might validate her belief in her own good fortune. Except then she’s handing him the Master of Flasks. 22, 21. He’s not winning this hand either.

He takes another shot. It goes down slightly easier this time.

He grows a little suspicious of her luck when on the third hand she gets a 24, and goes to take another card.

“Is that allowed?” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” She shrugs, and somehow manages to lay down The Queen of Air and Darkness. 22 - a tie, at least. Both their drinks go untouched.

“Are the cards marked or something?” He wouldn’t put it past the Stormtroopers, and the deck itself is looking a little unevenly rough.

“How would I even know which cards were marked?” She’s giving him a look of innocence that he’s slowly learned to be a little wary of, though she is right - even if she inspected the deck beforehand it’s not like she could have read the card values to figure out the system. 

Still, he takes over dealing the next hand. 

And still, she wins the hand. 

The third shot has his words slurring a little. “Looks like you really are lucky.”

“And it sounds like you should be taking smaller shots,” she grins. “I thought you roguish outlaw types were all supposed to be good at cards?”

“I’m a bounty hunter, not an outlaw. Guild work is all above board.”

“Hmm, I’m sure it is. I suppose that makes me the roguish outlaw then - no wonder I’m winning,” she teases.

“I don’t think breaking curfew for one night puts you on the galaxy's most wanted list.”

“Don’t forget I also stole these cards and the alcohol.”

“ _ I _ stole the Kashyyyk ale.”

“Only because I’m a corrupting influence,” she attempts to give him her best ‘roguish outlaw’ grin and somehow manages to look even more guiless than ever.

“It must be working then - I’ve got 23,” he announces, looking down at his cards.

She finally reaches over for her own glass. He’s equally enjoying watching the slender line of her throat stretch out as she tips back the ale and then the scrunch of her nose when the taste of it finally hits her. A small shudder seems to run through her as she sets her glass back on the table.

“I might be reconsidering playing for credits instead.”

The Mandalorian tries to stifle his laughter at the look of distaste on her face. “We can switch to something more palatable, but I don’t gamble with money that doesn’t belong to me.”

He realizes his mistake in letting that slip. He’s never really mentioned where his money goes, other than to ship repairs. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, but the Mandalorians’ secret is their survival. He can’t put them or her in danger by explaining this to her. So he comes up with a different reasoning.

“I mean I can’t take your money,” he rushes to add.

“You win one hand and you’re already counting your krill before they hatch,” she laughs. “But you’re right, I’m not a fan of wasting money on frivolities - I’d rather it go to the people who need it here when it can. Especially the farmers, I know the Empire took a lot of their land in building these bases. Any money my uncle gives me I try to return to the Neridiaans.”

It’s a sentiment he can certainly understand, and it finally explains why she spends her money so freely in the markets.

“Some outlaws we’d make,” he scoffs, dealing out another hand for their game.

“I don’t know, I think we’d make pretty good ones,” she smiles.

He tries not to get too caught up in the far-off idea of ‘we’.

* * *

After his fourth shot he finally gives up on any pretense of not looking her over. Outside her usual finery, she looks somehow more...approachable. He’s not sure if that’s the right word. It’s not like the soft silks she usually favors look any less inviting, and certain the picture she presents in her night dress is…

But dressed like this she almost looks like someone he might meet in real life. 

Because none of this feels quite like real life. In real life there’s no way he ends up playing drinking games with the daughter of an Imperial Marshal, joking about what kind of outlaws they’d make. And he certainly wouldn’t be sitting here letting her tease him with yet another win, bumping her knees up against his under the table. But she is very much real, and right now she’s sitting so close he could just reach out and touch the bare skin of her shoulder.

As his eyes trace over the soft curve of it, he notices a small scar near the edge of her tunic. He realizes that normally the small strip of skin is covered by the straps of her dresses, but now it peaks out from beneath the cut of the fabric. It almost looks like a blaster scar, but Gideon had never mentioned any attackers actually harming her. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask where it came from, but then her own soft voice cuts in before he can ask.

“This isn’t too dull for you is it? I’m sure your other jobs were far more exciting.” 

“I wouldn’t say exciting is the right word for most of my jobs.” He considers, and adds, “nor would dull be the right word to describe trying to keep you out of trouble.”

“So not the worst job then?” She smiles, accepting the roundabout compliment.

“Definitely not the worst.”

Her smile grows wider and he thinks she nearly blushes, but she just asks, “that would be the one on Nar Kreeta, right?”

He’s told her a few of his stories to amuse her, always leaving out any telling details about his clients or his particular bounties. He hasn’t really told her the worst ones though, the ones without much honor. He suspects she knows he’s leaving out the truly bad ones, but she never presses. 

“Just count yourself lucky you’ll never have to witness a grown Hutt crying over his pet rathtars.”

She laughs at the image of it just as she had weeks ago when he had told her the full story. It was a rather disastrous mission actually - he had nearly been eaten by the rathtars when the Hutt refused to pay the full bounty he was owed. It had been an even messier job getting the money out of the blubbering Hutt. The slime had eaten through the blast-dampening fabric of his clothing and it had taken most of the bounty he earned to replace it. It was only an amusing story in the retelling.

“Kirdo III was pretty bad too.” He adds.

The job there had merely been a ploy to try and marry him off to a rich landowner’s daughter. By capturing her, their small village apparently considered him her intended. And as much as he had an open mind when it came to cross-sentient-species relationships, he could hardly imagine even one Kitonak being willing to marry another. Which was perhaps the issue at hand. 

Though to Amira, who had never seen a Kitonak - and who didn’t put much stock into physical appearances, generally - it had been hard to describe quite why the situation was so dire. A Hutt was repulsive to each and every one of a person’s senses, so she seemed to feel Nar Kreeta was the worse of the two.

“Is that the story you told the woman in the bar?” She asks offhandedly.

With five drinks in him it takes his mind a second to remember what she’s talking about. And even then his brain mostly focuses on the memory of her strange expression when she noticed them talking.

“You jealous?” Apparently his words are no longer filtering through his brain before they come out of his mouth.

“Maybe a little. I think I’ve gotten used to having you all to myself.” She smiles.

It’s a surprisingly straightforward answer, despite the teasing tone of it. Perhaps his filter isn’t the only one affected by the alcohol.

“I told her the one about Riflor,” he feels the sudden urge to confess.

“She must have really been into you if she laughed at that one.”

He had only been telling the woman the story to make a point about the local culture, not really trying to amuse her. He tries not to think what it means that Amira didn’t laugh at the Riflor story, even if she did just admit to being a little jealous. And even as her knees continue to press firmly against his own beneath the table. Neither one of them has moved since the start of the game.

He’s certainly tempted to - after numerous shots of Kashyyyk ale his vision starts to blur a little at the edges and it gets even harder to ignore the urge to reach out and touch her. To steady himself somehow by making contact with the little glimpses of skin revealed by her tunic. 

After finally losing another hand and taking the shot she begins to look a little unsteady herself, swaying a bit until she’s forced to lean back into the couch behind her. The moment she starts to slide down a little he’s immediately on his feet, tugging her up onto the couch. 

“I think we’ve played enough hands for tonight.”

“I think you may be right.”

He’s somewhat surprised with how easily she gives in, except that she’s practically melting back into the seat behind her.

“I’ll get us some water.”

His legs are a little unsteady as he makes his way over to the kitchen, but he manages. He pours a large glass for both of them. Seeing as he’s currently surrounded by cabinets, and technically in a separate room from her, he lifts his helmet to gulp down the cool water, not wanting to deal with a straw when he’s already less than optimally-coordinated. 

He’s already feeling a little more clear-headed by the time he’s back at the couch. He holds the glass up to her lips. She looks as though she’s almost considering letting him continue aiding her, but then she’s taking the glass into her own hands and taking small little sips. Clearly she’s still reasonably coordinated and far less dehydrated than he felt. She sets the half full glass down on the table in front of them, and then she gently pulls him down to sit beside her. 

When he tries to leave some space between them she merely shifts closer, leaning into him and using his shoulder pauldron as what has to be the least comfortable headrest imaginable. He tries slipping his arm out from underneath her, allowing her head to rest on the softer fabric at his side. His arm hovers over her for a moment, uncertain what to do with the extraneous limb. 

Amira seems to sense this uncertainty, and gently tugs the offending arm around herself. This ends up placing his gloved hand over the bare skin of her shoulder, and he finally gives into the urge to stroke along the curve of it, taking it as encouragement when Amira merely curls further into his side. He allows his fingers to trace along the edges of the cutout, thumb dipping just beneath the fabric to press along her collarbone, drawing out a little shiver from the woman beside him. His thumb also sweeps over the small scar he spotted earlier. The skin there is smoother, lighter than the surrounding skin. Part of him still wants to ask, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

Amira’s merely seems to be looser, along with the rest of her. Her cheek is rubbing softly against his side and she’s dreamingly asking him “what kind of material is this anyway?”

“Duraweave. Just a little bit thicker. It helps deflect or absorb blaster fire.” He’s explained most of the parts of his armor to her already, as she’s been slowly attempting to catalog the source of every dent and scrape in his beskar through the occasional stories he tells her. The duraweave beneath is newer, following the incident on Nar Kreeta, and aside from a few small patches it’s in pretty good condition. All of it is cleaner than it’s ever been with having regular access to a fresher and a cycler for his clothing. It’s also a little softer now with so many repeated washings.

“So it’ll keep you safe?” She continues, pressing her forehead into his ribs.

“Safe enough. But you don’t need to worry about me.”

“I always worry about you.” She whispers into his side, and he’s not entirely certain if he was supposed to hear that part. 

He can certainly recognize the truth in her statement, however - the way she always makes sure he eats enough and takes care of himself, the way she still worries about hurting him when they practice self-defense. And even more alarmingly, the way she sometimes steps out in front of him when he’s supposed to be the one protecting her. Like when those new recruits didn’t recognize he was hired by the Marshal, or even tonight when she was tugging him into the alley away from the patrols.

He can’t really fault her too much for any of it because he knows he’s grown rather over-protective himself, though it’s impossible for him not to. Not with the way the delicate woman at his side always seems to rush headfirst into trouble. He supposes in some ways he’s not much better, even if he has far more experience getting himself out of trouble. 

But right now he can’t bring himself to want out of the trouble he’s currently in. And he knows he’s definitely in it with the way his chest tightens at each little movement and sigh from the woman curled into his side. Without conscious decision his hand continues to drift along her arm and shoulder, and Amira presses closer as they remain there for what feels like far too long and yet not nearly long enough, The Mandalorian doesn’t let himself have much, but he allows himself this. At least until he can feel her breathing start to slow, the steady rise and fall of her chest starting to become more shallow.

“I think it’s time for you to get to bed,” he decides, when it feels like she’s beginning to drift in his arms. His own eyelids are also feeling pretty heavy.

Unsurprisingly, she resists him on this, even half-asleep. “I’m fine right here, you can go on ahead.”

He feels more than hears the small whine that escapes her throat when he pulls away. He eases her down on to her side as he moves to stand up, and she readily curls into the too-firm seat below. She apparently really does intend to sleep there, and is taken a bit by surprise when the Mandalorian scoops her up and starts carrying her towards her bedroom. But her arms still manage to find their way around his neck, which he’s thankful for as he’s feeling more than a little unsteady.

The trek to her bedroom is slow. The door opens to his touch and he’s reminded of the fact she’s never kept him locked out. Perhaps she had in the beginning, but sometime before the night of her nightmare she must have left it open to him. He also notices the lights don’t activate on their entry, and he wonders if she has them set to turn on at all. Thankfully the lights from the other rooms cast enough illumination so he can get her over to her bed, easing her onto the sheets. Her head manages to find her pillow and she arches up a little as her body settles back into the mattress, humming with contentment. He tries not to think too hard about the picture she’s presenting. 

He knows he should leave her to it, but instead he moves to the foot of the bed to help her out of her boots. She’s still at least partly awake and certainly capable of working the fastenings off herself, but for some reason he’s carefully tugging them down and off, watching her small feet curl up beneath her as they’re freed. He manages to keep himself from going so far as to tuck her in, but he watches her as she slips herself easily beneath the sheets. 

“Tonight was nice,” she murmurs into her pillow. “Did you have a nice time?”

He’s not entirely sure he can put any easy label on the evening they’ve had, but he decides to humor her. 

“Sure.”

“Maybe next time I’ll get you to dance.” Her smile isn’t quite hidden by the pillow. 

He decides not to alert her now to the unlikeliness of that scenario.

“Go to sleep, ‘Mira.”

He turns to leave the room, but he hears her small whisper from the edge of the doorway.

“I like it, the way you say my name.”

He pauses for a moment, letting the words settle between them. He glances back at her, at her face no longer hidden by the pillow.

“Goodnight, ‘Mira.”

“Goodnight, Mandalorian.”

* * *

He awakens to the distant whooshing of a door. It startles him a little, as he typically rises before Amira, and it sounded more like the front door opening. 

But by the time he has his helmet on and his blaster at his side, he finds only Amira standing in the kitchen, starting to prepare their morning meal as she usually does. Except she doesn’t usually start it this early, and for some reason she’s already fully dressed.

“Wonderful, you’re up - how are you feeling?” She asks as soon as she hears him.

“Fine.” 

His head feels a little like the whole desert of Tatooine got poured into it sometime between last night and this morning, but it's nothing he can’t deal with.

“Here,” she’s suddenly pushing a glass of water into his hands, swirling with small bits of green and topped with yet another straw. “It’s from the Verdiun plant, it’s a natural analgesic. It’ll help with the headache.”

He assumes she must have woken up in a similar state, but clearly the concoction helped as she seems perfectly recovered, despite the darkish circles beneath her eyes.

“Go ahead and drink up, I thought we could head to the market a little early today. We didn’t get to pick up anything yesterday and I promised Jessamyn I’d see her before she opened her shop.”

“So we’re leaving early for gossip?” He grumbles around the beverage. It tastes of green things, which isn’t entirely unpleasant, but the texture is strange.

“The most valuable commodity in any town,” she teases, going back to work on their meal.

That’s when he starts to notice she’s predominately using her right hand in the process, when she usually favors her left. When he moves closer to observe her he can see that the first two fingers of her left are stiff and discolored. He carefully grasps at her wrist and lifts her hand towards his visor. When he gently tries to encourage her fingers to bend, she lets out a small cry and nearly pulls her hand out of his grasp.

“Did you have another nightmare?” 

He doesn’t know why he asks this, except that she was fine when he saw her last night, and he can’t think what might have happened to her between then and now. But her expression is clearly puzzled by his question.

“Last time, you were thrashing pretty hard.” He explains. He thought she might have even been sleepwalking with the way her room had been trashed, she could easily have jammed her fingers against the headboard in that state.

“I guess I must have hit them on something in my sleep,” she agrees, still trying to pull her hand back.

“I think you may have broken something. We should go to the medbay.”

“It’s fine, really. It doesn’t even hurt much if I don’t try to bend it.” 

“You should let me splint it, at least.” At this point he’s almost used to the way she pushes away any offer of help, but he’s hoping she’ll allow it from him if not from the med staff.

Still, he doesn’t give her any chance to refuse, ducking away for a moment to rifle through his supplies until he can find something suitable. He’s fractured enough bones himself to know you don’t want them healing wrong. 

When he returns to the kitchen he finds her back at work on their meal, but she willingly holds up her left hand to him when he approaches. She finally pauses her stirring as he carefully bandages her two fingers around the small stabilizer, making sure not to wrap them too tightly to avoid aggravating the swelling. The whole procedure takes barely more than a minute, but she still thanks him with a quick kiss to the base of his helmet.

He’s barely given a moment to let the gesture sink in before she puts him to work helping her with the meal, reminding him that she wants to head out soon. She finishes it in record time.

* * *

When they get to the marketplace she surprises him once again by only briefly stopping by Jessamyn’s shop before making a beeline to Marva. Amira embraces the older woman in greeting, as she had done with Jessamyn, though she had seen them both so recently. 

After that she’s asking him to help her choose what to get - even though she doesn’t allow him to select the individual produce himself. She insists what you can see is just a distraction from discovering the best ones, whereas scent and sound are far more reliable. Despite her earlier hurry, she still takes care in her selection.

She’s halfway through her shopping when they’re approached by two of the patrolling Stormptroopers. The Mandalorian’s hand automatically drifts towards his blaster.

“We’re to escort you back to the compound.”

“Is everything all right?” Amira asks them calmly, though the Mandalorian can read the tension in her form.

“Everyone’s being called back,” the second one answers. “The secured data center was apparently breached sometime earlier this morning.”

“Do they know if anything was stolen?” Amira continues, as she lays down some credits to cover their purchases. Marva and her grandson have stepped back a little ways since the arrival of the Troopers.

“Can’t say for sure. Apparently the failsafes went off - maybe they’ll find the intruder when they manage to get them open.”

Amira nods along with the apparently rather chatty Stormtrooper. His partner elbows him and directs them all back towards the compound. The Mandalorian makes sure to stand between them and Amira, though they seem to merely be escorting her in the literal sense of the word. No threats are ever made to either of them. As they get nearer the base they see others returning as well.

“Are we headed into something?” The Mandalorian feels the need to ask their escorts.

“The Marshal wants her returned to her rooms, in case anything got out.” The first Trooper deigns to tell them.

“All the security plans and munitions information are stored in the data server, it might be trouble if any of it got out.” The second one adds, and gets another elbow to the ribs for his trouble. “What? The Marshal hired him, he’s on our side now.” 

The Mandalorian bristles at the implication.

“Yeah, but only until the credits stop flowing.” The first reminds him.

It’s definitely a conditional truce, Amira notwithstanding. 

The entire compound seems to be in a frenzy upon their return, but they’re shut off from it the second the doors close to her apartment. Sadly, there’s not much to be thankful for in that, as the entire base is apparently now on lockdown.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there! The plot is finally starting to come out of the shadows!


	9. Lockdown

A few hours later the Marshal comes by Amira’s quarters to tell them what they’ve already mostly pieced together from the Stormtroopers’ chatter - someone got into the secure data center, nothing was stolen but the data may have been copied. There was no indication besides the activation of the failsafe doors that anyone had even gone near the room, and there was no evidence of a break-in on the base. So far everyone was accounted for, but the Marshal, one of his lieutenants, and several Stormtroopers were going room to room taking statements and searching the premises. 

“By your account, you left the compound at 0700 this morning?” asks the lieutenant, a round faced man with dark, sunken eyes. The Mandalorian thinks his name is Ardross. 

“Yes.” Amira answers him politely but succinctly, having already given a full account to the Marshal when he arrived. The Mandalorian notes that her hands are clasped in front of her during all of this, hiding her bandaged fingers from view. They’ve already been scanned for anything on their person, but her injury remains unnoticed by anyone but him.

“And this was not a regularly scheduled trip, or at the usual time.” It’s more of a statement, than a question.

“It was merely a delayed trip. My going earlier this morning was necessary as I was out of produce for my morning meal.” She answers diplomatically, though the recently purchased fruit sits beside them to display the truth of her answer.

“And this purchase was all that occurred during this excursion?”

“Yes.”

The Mandalorian supposes her visit to Jessamyn was short enough not to be noteworthy. 

“And you were with her the whole time?” 

It’s the first time he’s been addressed during this entire interrogation. He decides to follow Amira’s lead and his own inclinations to make this brief. “Yes.”

“Amira,” interrupts the Marshal’s clipped voice. He comes to stand in front of them, the half-empty bottle of Kashyyyk ale held tightly in his hands. The disapproving look on his face is the closest thing the Mandalorian has seen to a parental impulse from the man.

“Yes, Uncle?”

“Would you care to explain this?”

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to?” She puzzles.

The Mandalorian is quick to recognize the false innocence of her voice. Fortunately, the Marshal is not so quick. He sloshes the bottle in his hands, hoping for recognition.

“Oh,” she demurs, “that. Sometimes I’ll have a little when I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“There are medications for that,” he reminds her, apparently accepting the story but no less cross for it. “Where did you get this? Did you bring her this?”

It’s the second time he’s been directly addressed since the Marshal arrived but Amira is quick to rescue him. “I’ve had it for a while now - you don’t think I could possibly drink that much in just a few weeks…”

Amira sounds honestly hurt that her uncle would believe this of her, despite the fact that she had consumed nearly that amount of libations within the last evening alone. 

“Then where?”

“I don’t want to hurt your opinion of him…” her head bows.

Recognition fills the Marshal’s face. “Marius.”

The Mandalorian vaguely recognizes the name as that of Amira’s former bodyguard, apparently one of the Marshal’s more trusted Stormtroopers. He’s a little surprised to see her lay the blame on him, but he supposes it makes sense - it’s not like the dead man will contradict her story. And it keeps the Marshal from trying to fire the Mandalorian, or worse, so he’ll gladly thank his deceased predecessor for that.

“This will be confiscated,” he states, handing the ale off to another Stormtrooper, “along with your audio disks, pending further review.”

This is the first look of real concern he’s seen on her face this whole interview. The Marshal softens fractionally.

“They’ll be returned to you once we’re certain there’s no secure data on them. Currently it seems unlikely the thief managed to get the data off the base. Only eight of our personnel - and the two of you - scanned out this morning. No one else was seen leaving. We’re merely going down the list.”

Apparently they were the last of the outgoing party to be interrogated and searched. The Mandalorian wonders that no one seems to be aware of their late night excursion, even with the increased scrutiny. The Marshal seems so certain that no one broke in or out of the building, but clearly there are holes in their security if Amira could so easily get them out. 

He looks over at the woman next to him, Amira looking calm as ever despite the possible threat to the base’s security. She’s completely unflustered by the lieutenant’s interrogations, and he just watched her lie without hesitation to her uncle. His mind forcibly reminds him that he was so certain he heard the front door opening this morning, even though he tried to convince himself he had merely heard the door to Amira’s bedroom when he found her in the kitchen. 

Amira knows all of the door codes, all the overrides. She knows every passage in the base and how to move around undetected. And she’s hiding some inexplicable injury from everyone in the room - even tried to hide it from him. 

Except it makes no sense. Why break into the data center? Even if she can handle an old-fashioned key pad, she’s unable to work a computer that isn’t set to take audio commands. He supposes it’s not beyond her abilities to sneak someone else in - except who else does she even know? In the nearly two months he’s known her, he’s only seen her spend any significant amount of time with three people, not including himself or her uncle. There’s Master Pav, her crwth teacher, who is too frail to even travel to this side of town, let alone stage an elaborate break in. Then there’s Marva and Jessamyn, but she went out of her way to visit both women this morning. What reason would she have to see them again if she had just helped them break in? 

Then there was the more important question - why? He knew Amira wasn’t exactly a fan of the Empire, and she seemed to stay with her uncle more out of a sense of duty than any familial feelings, but even if she was willing to endanger them, why would she endanger herself? Anything that helped the rebellion only had the potential to hurt her too.

And so he dismisses the idea. It makes far more sense that she is merely hiding their escapades from her guardian, and that the lies she told are just to protect him. He can believe that more readily than the idea that the same girl he had watched get stuck up a tree is also some kind of master spy.

He listens as the girl in question is told the courtyard is off-limits during the base lockdown. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so crushed, but she doesn’t argue with the Marshal. She simply accepts that they will need to lock themselves in her apartment until the rest of the base and town can be fully searched, and her safety is assured. 

* * *

There’s not much left to their day after the interrogation, but still it seems to move slowly. Amira is more subdued than usual with news of the confinement, and there’s not a lot to distract either of them. Dinner is a simple affair, Amira not wanting to use up all their produce now for fear they’d be delivered ration packets like the rest of the personnel until they’re freed. Even her music disks had been taken, and so there’s nothing to fill the silence that weighs heavily on the apartment. He considers suggesting another lesson or a game to her, but she doesn’t seem in the mood for much more than sitting unseeing by the windows, possibly trying to catch any sounds from the outside world - though the glass is far too thick to hear much of anything. So he takes a seat next to her and starts to tell her about the planet Coridian Alpha. 

There’s not much of a story there, just a simple capture and cash job. But he thinks she might like the planet itself more than his adventures there. It was one of the greenest places he’s ever seen, and he might not know the names of the plants, but she perks up a little when he describes one with leaves that would curl up when you touch them. Each little leaf would fold in and then the whole thing would curl back towards the protective base. She also seemed to enjoy hearing of another that seemed to ‘walk’ as it moved along its root system to find water. He tells her of old ruins completely overtaken by the forest, the roots and vines that crack through the stones, and all the small creatures that now call it home. How the beetles buzzed so loudly they nearly broke his sonic detector.

Most of the planet’s current inhabitants lived up in the trees, and Amira seemed especially interested to find out how they managed to get up and down so easily. He actually isn’t certain, as he hadn’t really interacted with any of the locals, but the trees themselves were quite large and he thinks perhaps they could have built a ladder or even a staircase within the trunks. She loves the idea of getting to go inside a tree so much she almost begs him to take her to see them one day. And he nearly says yes.

* * *

By the next morning it seems her spirits have almost fully returned - as has her tendency to walk out still in her night clothes. She exits her room humming softly, her hair left completely undone for the first time in his memory. The dark tresses fall into soft waves all around her shoulders and face, and he feels the strange urge to reach out and run his fingers through the strands as she passes. 

He manages to keep his hands to himself, however, simply following her into the kitchen to help her with their meal. She still refuses to go see the doctor about her fingers, insisting they would heal just fine on their own and that she had medicine enough to treat them. But he figures she might accept a little extra help in the kitchen if he doesn’t make too much of a fuss about it, and so she does. He takes over portioning out the ingredients she asks for while she stirs it all together - managing to stir with her injured hand and season with her uninjured one. 

He watches as she also uses her uninjured hand to try and tuck the unruly strands of her hair back behind her ears, unsuccessfully. She tries several times to get them to stay put, but they always manage to escape a few moments later. He supposes this is why she never wears it down. After her fifth attempt to keep it off her face and ears, he hears her let out an adorable little noise of frustration.

“I don’t suppose you know how to do a coronet braid?” She asks, none too hopefully.

“I can’t say that I do.”

She sighs beside him, and the rest of her hair takes that moment to fall further into her way.

“I can do a rope braid though.” He offers, inwardly pleased in the smile this earns him.

She immediately sets her meal to simmer and turns towards him, “ _please.”_

And how is he supposed to say no to that? He’s never actually attempted this on a person’s hair, but he figures it can’t be too different than braiding rope. Though he may need to remove his gloves for this - not wanting any part of his armor to get caught up in the strands of her hair. 

He frees his hands quickly, fingers flexing to adjust to their unaccustomed freedom. They feel lighter like this - more nimble, certainly, but also a little like they might fly off without permission. He tries to steady them for the task ahead. 

Amira has already pulled over one of the low stools from underneath the counter, seating herself with her back to him. Her head is tipped back ever so slightly, hair falling in dark waves down her back. He steps quietly behind her, eyes glancing down over the soft fan of her lashes across her cheeks, the graceful stretch of her throat. The easy trust she feels in letting him do this for her. But his hands hover uncertainly, mind suddenly blanking on how to begin.

He’s realizing that hair is very different from rope. For one thing, there’s a lot more of it. It’s also soft and potentially slippery in a way most twine is not. And most importantly, it’s attached to another person. He can’t just start tugging at her strands and hope for the best. He has to do this right. 

First things first - he needs to make sure he won’t accidentally hurt her. He’s already removed his gloves and his bracers, so that’s one potential issue averted. The next is making sure his bare fingers won’t catch on any possible snags.

It’s obvious she’s managed to figure out how to brush her hair with two broken fingers at least, the dark tresses in front of him appearing smooth and lustrous in the morning light. But his fingers nearly itch with the urge to comb through them. And so he allows himself to gently dip his fingers into the strands under the guise of untangling them. He gathers as much as he can into one hand as the other goes to run carefully through the silky ends, repeating the motion several times without finding a single tangle. He releases her hair to continue upwards, using both hands to run through her hair until he reaches the soft skin at the top of her neck. The girl in front of him arches back ever so slightly when the bare skin of his fingertips meets hers, brushing across the cords of her neck and the small curls at the edge of her hairline.

He considers he should probably stop here, where he had planned to start the braid. But he reminds himself that she usually starts her braids from the top of her head and gives himself permission to continue brushing upwards. Amira certainly doesn’t seem to mind this small change of plans, leaning back further into him as his fingertips reach up towards her temples. 

She lets out a soft hum as his fingers drag back through her hair, the sound of it dancing across his ears even as it permanently etches itself into his memory. Even better is the little shudder that results from the barest hint of blunted nails against her scalp. And so he keeps going, brushing her hair back from her forehead as well. He can’t seem to stop watching the tan skin of his fingers disappearing between the silky waves, searching for more of those soft hums and shivers. 

It feels once again like this moment is leading somewhere, somewhere he can’t allow himself to go. Even if Amira seems to be right there with him - or possibly even several steps ahead, as she always seems to be. This is a kind of intimacy he doesn’t allow himself. It feels far too personal, and they both know he can’t return the gesture. Can’t give her what she needs. What she deserves. He can already feel himself wanting things he shouldn’t, things that wouldn’t do either one of them any good.

So he tries to remember he has a job to do. Parting her hair and twisting the strands along her temples, resisting the urge to allow his fingers to run along her forehead and cheeks, though he can’t quite avoid his knuckles brushing the tips of her ears. He nearly loses his place when she leans into the touch, tilting her head into his hands. But he keeps going, twisting her hair behind her ears and along the nape of her neck. 

He’s not sure how to make it go straight down her back from here, so he keeps it going a little sideways, thinking she usually does it to the side and over her shoulder for sleeping. He tries his best to keep from touching her bare shoulders as he twists the braid away from her scalp, and ends up tugging a little harder than he intends. Amira makes a small noise of discomfort but holds herself steady as he finishes the braid off.

When he reaches the end he suddenly realizes he has no way of securing the braid, only to have Amira hold up a small ribbon, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. It’s simple enough from there to tie it off in a hitch knot. It may not look the nicest but she’ll be able to undo it herself single-handed.

“All set.” He manages to get out, setting the braid over her shoulder, before hastily retrieving his gloves. His fingers feel even more unmoored now than they had earlier.

But he watches as Amira runs her own bare fingers along the twists of the braid, smiling at the results of his handiwork. It’s not quite as elegant as her usual style but she seems pleased enough to have it out of her face. He does his best to ignore the fact those same fingers also trace over her ears and neck where his own fingers just touched.

“Thank you, Mandalorian. That’s much better.”

This time she catches his hand in her own to press a brief kiss at the center of his palm. He doesn’t know whether to be thankful for the presence of his gloves or not.

* * *

The rest of their day is mostly uneventful. A Stormtrooper drops by to deliver some food - Imperial rations, as predicted. The Mandalorian realizes how spoiled he has become in his time here at the twinge of disappointment he feels upon seeing them. Amira seems to take it as calmly as she takes all things Empire-related, though she carefully goes through their stocks of fresh food to see what can last the longest until they’re able to go out again. The findings aren’t very hopeful, considering their previous trip was interrupted and they didn’t complete their usual amount of shopping.

After that, there’s not much else to do. All of Amira’s audio disks are still being reviewed by her uncle - she already seems to consider the planetary histories lost forever - and the gardens are closed off to them both. He thinks this is the hardest part of all for her. He catches her spending far too much time with her indoor plants that afternoon, giving them more attention and care than they probably need. She’s already pulled out a small pair of pruning shears to trim back one of the vinier plants in the corner, snipping off individual leaves based on some criteria that is beyond him. 

But he refuses to give her any self-defense lessons until her fingers heal. He tries to suggest going to medical one last time, and she once again refuses. He wonders if she is aware of how suspicious her injury might look, and if that factors into her refusal. He guesses she doesn’t want to risk bringing any more scrutiny into the events of the evening before last. 

He hopes she’s not enduring two potentially broken fingers just to keep him from being fired (or possibly fired _at_ ) by her uncle. As much as a small part of him delights in the fact she might be doing all of this to keep him around, the larger part of him just feels guilt that she has to protect him. 

Still, she insists she’s in hardly any pain with the Verdiun, and her expression certainly doesn’t appear to be pained. She mostly just seems...bored, and perhaps a little restless after over 30 hours trapped in the apartment.

It turns out the Stormtroopers didn’t manage to recover their card deck, so they spend most of the evening figuring out games to play without Amira’s ability to see her cards. It’s a pretty limited selection, and cards aren’t all that interesting with nothing on the line. So they trade more stories about the places they’ve been that the other hasn’t. Unfortunately, Amira’s time was mostly spent following her parents around to diplomatic functions, rather than exploring, and all he has left to describe are his less interesting bounties - of the ones he’s willing to tell her about, at least. 

Even as bored as he is he’s not about to tell her the ones he can barely stand to remember himself. He knows she’s not so naive as to believe he’s anything like a good man, but he’s not ready to face her knowing just how not good he could be. He won’t lie to himself and think that he could be any good now, but he can’t help but want to be at least a little worthy of the trust she puts in him. Keep her safe. Even from himself.

So he sticks to the easier stories, and doesn’t press when she avoids any seemingly painful subjects herself. She talks a lot about her parents, but the closest she’ll come to touching on their deaths, and the apparent loss of everyone else in her life, is to talk about them in the past tense. He supposes he doesn’t share much about the loss of his own family either, what he remembers of it. Maybe if Gideon had left the Kashyyyk ale behind they might have managed, but sober neither of them seems up to it.

It constantly takes him by surprise just how much he shares in common with this sheltered Imperial daughter. How they've both known so much loss already. And while they've both adjusted to solitude and the usual monotony of their respective positions, they both still chafe at their current lack of freedom. In fact he thinks it's worse for her than for him. At least he has a clear end in sight. Amira is far less lucky.

That night, lying alone in his bunk, he tries to think up something better for them to pass the time in lockdown. But his mind just keeps circling back to the soft noises she made as his fingers tangled in her hair, the way she leaned into his touch. The gentle press of her lips against his palm. 

It’s not the first time he’s been kept awake with such thoughts, and it’s definitely not the first time he’s been forced to resolve things for himself in order to finally get some rest. But it is the first time he’s run out of guilt by the time he finally starts to drift off. Too bad he knows it’ll return when he wakes.

* * *

As predicted, the guilt returns, and the next two mornings he’s more careful to avoid excess contact when braiding her hair back. Even when she came to him earlier this morning with hair unbrushed, he makes the decision to grab her hairbrush instead of using his fingers. He’s not sure if it helps much. It certainly doesn’t seem to alleviate Amira’s restlessness. 

He can sense the tension in every line of her body. It’s pretty hard to miss, really. The two of them are still stuck in fairly close quarters, and with her injury he ends up even nearer to her than usual. Part of it is necessity - the military rations they’ve been given aren’t always the easiest to work with even in the best situations, and she’s far less familiar with them than he is, so he’s helping more than usual in the kitchen. And of course he’s been helping with other small tasks throughout the day. But he also recognizes he’s sticking closer out of concern as well. Thankfully she seems to accept his fussing over her with a surprising lack of stubbornness, allowing him to help her even when they’re both very aware she’s capable of handling the task on her own. And maybe it’s enough, that they both know she can do it herself, for her stubbornness to subside.

If she seems to have relaxed about receiving help from him, it’s about the only thing relaxed about her lately. He can read the tension in her shoulders and neck as he braids her hair, and catches her hands fidgeting ever so slightly whenever they’re working on some task together. It reminds the Mandalorian a bit of the night she suggested they sneak out. He tries not to think too hard about what had her wound so tightly that night. Tries to remind himself that being confined for so long is bound to make anyone tense. It’s her freedom she needs, not anything else.

And so he does his best to ignore it, knowing there’s nothing he can say or do to restore her freedom - short of blasting their way out of here and stealing her away across the galaxy. But his chances of success are slim, and the life of a bounty hunter isn’t one he ever wants to drag her into. Still, there are times when he almost considers it, when he notices she seems to tense up even more in his presence. He hopes she’s not getting sick of him already.

He’s finally forced to say something when he watches her aggressively grinding up some Verdiun leaves for far longer than feels strictly necessary. The bowl is held in her bandaged hand, but her right grips the pestle so tightly her knuckles are nearly white. There’s a fierce look of concentration on her face he worries might be pain at this point.

He steps over to gently halt her, carefully prying both hands away from the bowl. “I think it’s had enough.”

Her fingers twitch in his hands where he’s still holding on to them, and he hopes she hasn’t injured them further. He really should take a better look at them.

“Up.”

She already has her hands on the counter behind her ready to jump up before he realizes that’s not the best idea with her injury. So he grips her waist and lifts her til she’s seated in front of him on the counter. He tries to ignore the small gasp she makes at the move, the way her legs are left splayed a little beneath her dress - and how she doesn’t bother closing them. He’s forced to once again step between her knees in order to check she hasn’t injured herself more. 

He lifts her left hand from its place on the counter, cradling it in one glove as he carefully unwraps the bandages around her fingers, looking for any additional swelling or bruising, or anything that might indicate it worsening. 

It looks much better than it had though. He had encouraged her to ice to it earlier, and the swelling has clearly stayed down. Even the color looks better. He starts to rewrap the splint, a little more snuggly now that the swelling has subsided, and finally looks up towards her face. Her eyes have closed and her lips are slightly parted, but the tense line of her brows has him still worrying. As does the excessive pulverization of her herbal pain remedy.

“Is it bothering you more than usual?”

She shakes her head, as always a slightly exaggerated gesture she’s never quite perfected. “It doesn’t hurt, not really, but I’d just like to be able to use my hand again.”

He understands that, but knows there’s no rushing the healing process. “It’ll mend in its own time. And I can lend a hand whenever you need it.”

She grins at the offer, voicing dropping low and teasing, “is that so?” 

He can feel his face heating beneath his helmet as he considers the implications of his words and her own. He doesn’t think she meant it the way his mind immediately jumps to, that she’s likely just teasing him for his tendency to offer up his help any chance he gets. But something about her expression makes him think she knows exactly where his thoughts have gone. Her next words certainly don’t help dispel this belief.

“Don’t worry, I know I can't ask you for that kind of help,” - apparently her mind has also gone to the same place - “I’m just a little frustrated, I'll deal with it.” 

He feels like he’s suddenly having a stroke, the way his brain practically has to reboot itself at the implication of her words. It shouldn’t surprise him this much - she’s never really shied away from discussing human needs. But he’s unprepared for the sudden mental image of her ‘dealing’ with things herself - or being unable to, as the case may be. Of the idea of her asking him for help with her frustration. The thought of lending a hand…

But she’s just told him she won’t ask that of him. Is it because she doesn’t want to ask him, or feels she shouldn’t? If he were to offer…

It’s a terrible idea, he knows. Even to suggest it. As much as they’ve allowed themselves to become friendly, there’s a vast gulf between them that can’t be crossed. Shouldn’t be crossed. Not with the way their lives are heading in completely opposite directions. It will be hard enough to move past this brief intersection of their paths without knowing what she’d look like, what she’d sound like, if he touched her the way he wanted to right now.

He knows he should back away, let the conversation drop between them and ignore it, as he had ignored so many other moments before this one. But he can’t quite seem to make himself leave. 

“You dealing with it by grinding those Verdiun leaves to atoms?” He asks her, voice dropping to tease her as she did earlier.

He hears her sigh. “It’s just a lot. Not to be able to leave, to talk to anyone else outside of here. I think I’m just going a little stir crazy.” 

He realizes she’s giving him an out, a chance to blame all of this on cabin fever and have things go back to normal. Or as normal as they can be with the two of them. But for once he doesn’t want to back down. 

He pushes further into her space, hips pressing her thighs further apart as she practically arches up to meet him. He suspects she doesn’t really want him to back down either. He realizes his hand is still wrapped around her left wrist, and gently strokes the sensitive skin above her pulse point.

“Is talking really what you want?” 

He can practically feel her pulse jumping beneath his gloved fingers, but her voice is steady. 

“No, it isn’t.” 

His free hand reaches up to settle on her thigh, allowing his thumb to trace down along the ridge of her hipbone. 

“Is this?”

He can feel her shivering beneath the gentle brush of his thumb, thighs widening almost unconsciously. But still she hesitates a moment before answering.

“I know I can’t ask you to remove your armor.” 

The Mandalorian nearly chuckles at the seriousness of her expression, at the way she still tries to respect his code even as her body begs for him to abandon it. He grows a little bolder at her obvious want.

“I don’t need to remove my armor to take care of you.” 

Before she has the chance to ask what he means, he allows a gloved hand to slip down between her thighs, pleased with the sharp intake of breath he draws out of her as he cups her through the layers of her skirts, the way her eyes widen unconsciously. He realizes they’ve been dancing around this all day - for who knows how long, really - and words haven’t filled this need between them. Still, he simply holds his hand there for several long moments, breathing in the air grown heavy between them, waiting for one or both of them to realize that this is a mistake.

But whether it is or not, neither one of them seems to want to put a stop to this. The Mandalorian knows he’s not imagining the way her hips are pressing back against his hand, can hear the way her breathing has grown increasingly unsteady. Her eyes have fluttered shut and her lips are parted once more, a little crease forming between her brows, and he finally recognizes her expression from earlier. All of the tension and the slight shakiness of her fingers around him. Mistake or not, he knows she needs this. He just hopes it will be enough.

He doesn’t miss the little whine when he has to pull his hand back, releasing her wrist as well so he can reach for the hem of her dress. He’s reminded again of the night he checked her over for injuries, but this time he allows himself to touch her as much as he’d wanted to even then. He slides his hands along the full length of her legs as he drags the material upwards, brushing along the muscles of her calves and the softness of her outer thighs, drawing out little sighs at the slight scratch of his gloves against her. He feels himself going a bit lightheaded as inch by inch of her creamy skin is revealed, at the way she shivers beneath him as her skirts are pushed to pool around her waist.

He brings his fingers to trace teasing circles along the delicate skin of her inner thigh as he slowly journeys upwards, his other hand still curved around her hip. His eyes are caught on her face the entire time, watching for her responses. The way her breathing quickens, the way her little pink tongue peeks out to wet her lips. He feels the sudden urge to capture her lips with his own, something he can’t really remember feeling so bereft of before. He distracts himself from this thought by dropping his gaze to the smooth arch of her neck, the tautness of her nipples beneath the fabric of her dress, pressing towards him with each rise and fall of her chest. Every bit of her responding to his barely there touches, and he feels himself responding as well, blood rushing south with each little gasp and shiver. 

He watches as her head falls back and her lips draw in another shuddering breath when his fingers finally reach their goal. He allows his middle finger to drag carefully along her center, over the top of her silky undergarments. His finger glides easily along the fabric, her readiness already soaking through the material. He can feel the fingers of his gloves growing damp and warm with her.

“Is this just for me?”

He doesn’t know what possesses him to ask the question, or when his voice turned to gravel in his throat - this is not what this is supposed to be about. But her softly whispered “ _yes_ ” has him hardening even further, and he realizes he’s in far more trouble here than he realized. There’s no way he’s coming back from any of this. But he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Is this what you were thinking about earlier, when I offered to lend a hand?”

This brings out a smile from her, and her whole body starts shaking a little in what might almost be laughter. But she doesn’t hesitate to respond.

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since you offered to teach me how to throw a punch.”

He nearly laughs too, at the memory of helping her curl her hand into a proper first. The way she managed to knock him over not once but twice. It was probably the first time their hands had ever touched, and had she really been thinking about this for so long? If he’s honest with himself, he can recognize he’s probably been thinking about her for just as long, even if he tried his hardest not to. 

He presses his fingers even more firmly against her, rubbing experimentally until he finds the little bundle of nerves that has her crying out. Her arms scramble to wrap around his neck as he starts circling her clit through the fabric, drawing him closer to her. He groans as this action forces his dick to press unsatisfactorily against the hard edge of the counter, but he tries to ignore this and enjoy the feel of her thighs tightening around his hips, her heels digging into the backs of his knees.

He goes back to teasing her, allowing his fingers to map out each spot that elicits a gasp or a moan even through the fabric that separates them. He half considers removing his gloves, allowing his bare fingers to dip beneath the material and finally into her. But he knows he won’t be able to keep it together if he could feel her hot and tight around him like this. Not that he’s keeping it together as it is.

He can feel her whole body thrumming with need beneath him, and he can’t seem to get enough of her responses. He presses a thick finger up against her entrance, hips jerking at the sound she makes as he just barely pushes in through the barrier of her underwear. He goes back to teasing along the seam of her just to feel her shivering in his arms. When he allows the heel of his hand to grind against her clit she practically bucks up into his hands. He keeps alternating his touches, trying to figure out which she likes best. But finally she answers the question for him.

“ _There! Right there, just like that…_ ”

He’s back to circling her clit a little more firmly than earlier. Her hips are rolling up to meet him and he recognizes she’s already starting to get close, and tries to keep steady pressure until she asks for anything different. 

“ _So good, you’re so good…”_

He feels his breath catch at the praise, body shivering a little with the words she offers up so easily. He may not be a good man, but he’s pleased he can be good for her. He can give her what she needs, even if it’s going to make it so much harder to walk away from her in just a short time. 

Because right now she is tugging his head down to press against hers, the beskar of his helmet cool against her forehead, pulling them into the closest thing to a real kiss they can share. And she doesn’t let him go, even as he can feel her body winding tighter and tighter as he continues to touch her. Her breath is coming out in a steady stream of hot little pants, fogging up the lower T of his visor, but he can still see her as clearly as ever this close. He can still look down between them to where one hand disappears beneath her skirts and between her thighs, which are already shaking around him. His other hand still clutched at her hip, drawing them closer together. He ignores the heavy ache between his own legs, the urge to press himself even closer, til he’s buried deep within her. Til they can no longer be separated.

But this is about her, just her and her needs. To try and release all the tension that’s been building in her for far too long. He’s used to strain, to deprivation. But he doesn’t want that for her. He wants her sated and happy. Wants her to not have to hold back any part of herself from him. He keeps thinking back to all the little ways she tried to reach out for his touch, and all the ways she’s denied herself. But he can give her this at least, the firm press of his fingers where she seems to need it the most. 

She’s definitely close now, if the way her hands and legs are clutched tightly around him is any indication. He almost worries that he’s hurting her with how fiercely she presses their foreheads together, but she apparently has no inclination of pulling away. Her hips keep rocking up to meet the circling of his fingers, and he tamps down on any extraneous thoughts to focus on the way her breath is stuttering through lips bitten red, the quaking of her thighs around him. 

“‘ _Mira,”_ he breathes out, by way of encouragement.

And apparently, it’s enough to bring her over the edge, lips falling open in a silent cry as she shudders against his fingers. She comes down slowly from her climax, still trembling with the aftershocks as she presses barely coordinated kisses against any part of his helmet she can reach. He can feel his hands itching to tear away the helmet between them when he realizes.

He is well and truly fucked.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this story planned for months, and I can't believe the lockdown chapters are coming when the real world is in quarantine D: Hopefully this helps pass the time a little for those who are stuck at home. I'm fortunately or unfortunately in public health and working overtime, so chapters are might be a little slower.
> 
> And I THRIVE on comments and will respond to everyone so if you haven't talked to anyone all day you know what to do ;)


	10. Lockdown pt. 2

The Mandalorian can’t bring himself to feel guilty for any of it, not with the look of Amira’s sated bliss so fresh in his memory.

He had helped her down off the counter on shaky legs, ignoring his own pulsing need even when she offered to return the favor. Instead he led her over to the fresher to wash up while he tried to bring his own heart rate back down.

He considers going into his own bunk to take care of things, but he feels a sharp tug at his chest at the thought of not being here when she returns. So instead he pushes aside the small table to give himself some space to run through a few exercises, trying to work off all this restless energy another way.

Amira comes back out a short time afterwards, now dressed in her tunic and loose pants as if she already knew what he was doing out here. When he moves to the side she quietly comes to join him in the series of movements he taught her several weeks ago, now able to perfectly mirror him even though she can’t see him. He’s thankful to see things haven’t suddenly become weird between them, that they’re able to fall back into their old rhythms. He’s even more thankful she seems content not to talk about it.

In fact she’s almost too content. Even though she’s still matching him, her movements are more languid than anything, and she’s barely putting any muscle into it. Still, it’s good to see an end to all the restlessness and tension, and he gently encourages her to just do some stretches instead and take advantage of her relaxed state.

Which turns out to be a bit of a mistake, as he’s forced to watch her bend easily into various contortions that are not at all helping him calm down. But she doesn’t seem to be aware of it, or intentionally trying to tease him with it. She’s not even staying particularly close to him. So he continues grunting through his own workout, doing his best to focus on exhausting his muscles rather than the woman beside him. It takes a while, but eventually his arousal fades into a steady thrum which he’s slowly growing used to.

The Mandalorian thinks he’ll be alright, if that is the end of it.

* * *

It’s not the end of it, of course.

The next morning she comes out of her room in her nightdress with hair just as tangled as the morning before as she takes her usual seat. And it shouldn’t look so appealing, to see her walking around still sleep rumpled with hair wild, all of it in direct contrast to her usual effortless grace. But he recognizes he is being allowed to see this, see her vulnerable in a way he suspects few have. It also doesn’t hurt that it is far too easy for his mind to drift towards thoughts of what else might leave her looking so thoroughly disheveled. 

He suspects she knows this, as she seems to know far too many things. 

And he should have known she wouldn’t suddenly give up their strange morning routine, even if he had thought last night had satisfied her need for more. As for himself - even though he hadn’t touched her directly, the memory of her warmth and her eagerness would be enough to hold him over for a long time. He couldn’t let himself want more than this. And he has no idea what to do with the fact she certainly seems to, even if she won’t ask for it directly.

Braiding her hair back, at least, he can manage. But when he goes to grab her hairbrush, gentle hands halt him as he passes. He realizes he shouldn’t be surprised, already knowing what she was silently asking for.

Seemingly unable to deny her anything, he turns to face her back as he tugs off his gloves and bracers.

This time, he doesn’t even try to avoid touching her skin, fingers brushing against her forehead and neck as he combs through the tousled strands of her hair. She leans reflexively into each touch, shivering a little each time his fingers drag across her scalp. He’s once again reminded how little contact she has with the world, even before their confinement here. And despite this - or perhaps because of it - she asks for so little for herself from the people around her. Even the things she asks of him are simple, easy things. This included, even if her soft little sighs are driving him crazy.

“You know you can ask for things,” he states abruptly, breaking the silence between them. He tries not to think about what he wants her to ask for.

But she takes his abruptness in stride. “I could say the same to you,” she says, not unkindly. And then she smiles knowingly. “But you always tense up whenever I bring up sex or affection - yes, just like that.”

And he realizes he can’t deny the way his fingers have suddenly paused mid stroke, or the way his entire being is now very focused on the word ‘sex’ rolling off her tongue so easily. But it’s not a reaction to the subject so much as the woman in front of him.

“I didn’t want to embarass you,” she adds.

“I’m not embarrassed.” He can feel his skin heating beneath the beskar, but it’s assuredly not from embarrassment.

“That’s good, because I really like you brushing my hair like this.”

With that he suddenly remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, and she tilts her head easily into the cradle of his hand so he can resume detangling the spot behind her ear. He chuckles lowly when she lets out a soft moan at the move.

“I can see that.” 

“Mmm, haven’t you ever had anyone brush your hair for you?” 

“Not that I can remember.” 

It’s not something he thinks about much, but he can sense her growing a little more solemn at his response. Her small hand comes up to cover the one cradling her head, pressing his hand against her cheek. 

“Well it’s really nice,” she reveals, and he can feel her soft smile against his palm.

“I’m not doing much,” he shrugs, thinking of the smallness of this favor.

“You took off your gloves, though.” She pulls the hand at her cheek forward to place a soft kiss at the center of his bare palm. He can feel his skin buzzing beneath her lips. 

But then she pulls back to whisper against his hand, “Mandalorian? You said I could ask for what I want?”

He nearly freezes up again, but continues to stroke through her hair, hoping she won’t notice the sudden uptick in his pulse. He forces out a sound that can hopefully be interpreted as an affirmation.

“What if I asked you to touch me without your gloves?”

This time he does pause. He thinks about telling her that he is touching her, imagines her having to tell him exactly where she wants his hands. But even the thought of hearing those words has him lifting her from her seat to press her up against the wall. 

He’s careful not to push too hard, but he needs to see her face right now, needs to have no space left between them so neither of them can mistake the intent here . If she’s bothered by the move she certainly doesn’t show it, body arching to meet his and breath coming out a little unsteadily already. Her hands are pressed against the armor at his chest but she isn’t pushing him away. As much as he had been trying to maintain the distance between them, he can’t resist the pull to have as much of her as he can bear.

He allows his fingers to run along the bare skin of her arms, erupting into gooseflesh with each pass, pleased to be able to feel the muscle building beneath her soft skin. He thinks about training her to escape this very position, how he hadn’t allowed himself at the time to imagine her enjoying being in it. And she’s definitely enjoying the feel of him against her, if the way her hips are pressing into him is any indication. He groans when she raises herself up on her toes to meet his rapidly growing interest, and forces himself to pull back slightly.

He ignores the tiny whines that escape her as he reaches down to gather up a fistful of her night dress, drawing it up slowly with one hand as his other hand winds its way back into her unbound hair, holding her steadily in place. He watches her face as he drags up the hem of her gown, the flushing of her cheeks as her unseeing eyes go half-lidded. He can hear her breath quickening as his bare fingers brush across her thighs and belly.

“Hold this,” he presses the sleek fabric into her hands.

He’s half tempted to step back, just to see the picture of Amira like this - skin flushed, hair wild, and holding her skirt up past her belly just for him. But this isn’t for him at all - it’s for her. And so he contents himself with allowing his bare fingers to brush along the delicate skin of her inner thighs, enjoying the warmth and softness he could only imagine before. 

Amira, still as bold as ever, widens her stance on her own, encouraging his fingers higher. He continues to tease at her thighs a few moments longer, intent on memorizing as much of her skin as he’s allowed, but eventually he reaches up to trace along the edge of her underclothes. They’re almost as silky as her skin, and she shivers when he slips the barest edge of a finger beneath them. Another finger slips along her center through the fabric, feeling her damp and warm even through the material. When he reaches the firm bump of her clit, he thinks he can almost almost sense her heartbeat against his fingertips. He drags his middle finger back and forth along the seam of her until he can feel her practically soaking through the silky material.

When he finally pushes aside the fabric, he groans at the sensation of her slick flesh hot against the bare skin of his fingers, searing him with the feel of her. Her swollen lips part easily with the barest pressure against her and she moans as his fingers slide along her without any barriers between them. He lets a finger just barely dip into her entrance before slipping back, dragging moisture up to her clit to gently circle it. At the sharp intake of her breath, he repeats the motion, again and again until her hips begin to match his rhythm.

With each pass he allows his finger to dip a little further into her. She seems so small caged in by his larger body, and so tight around his thick finger. But she’s also so slick and ready for him, he doesn’t worry about hurting her. He merely wants to prolong the experience, feel himself slowly sinking into her as though the memory of it won’t torture him later. As though the feel of her inner walls gripping around him isn’t already driving him crazy right now. 

Still he takes his time to work a single digit into her, smiling at the way Amira tries to get more of him without any leverage of her own. Her hands are still gripped tightly around the hem of her night dress, and only her shoulders and head are still touching the wall. The rest of her is trying desperately to press closer to him, taut nipples straining visibly through the translucent fabric of her dress. And he’s tempted, he’s so tempted, to pull his hand from her hair and feel the stiff peak of her breast against his palm, but he knows the more he takes the more he’ll want.

So he focuses instead on the way his finger finally sinks full into her, and she lets out a beautiful little sigh at the feel of his knuckles bumping against her. He draws it back just as slowly, nearly pulling it out entirely before easing it back in. She finally stills against him for the first couple easy thrusts, holding herself steady to enjoy the slick glide of his finger. But eventually her hips start to move restlessly against his hand again.

“ _More_ ,” she breathes out.

“More what?” He realizes his own breathing has grown heavier and his voice comes out thick and low.

“More _anything,”_ she presses, and who is he to deny her?

He speeds the thrust of his finger at first, which earns him a pleased little hum. Her expression is so open right now, and he can’t stop staring at the soft part of her lips, listening for each little sound that escapes. He tries to ignore the fact that every small sigh and moan thickens his blood and fills his cock further. He resists the urge to press against the softness of her belly, even as her lower body continues rocking forward to meet his thrusts. 

Finally he allows his finger to slip almost fully out before coming back to slide another finger deep within her swollen folds. He can feel her parting around the intrusion, arching up into him as her walls simultaneously grip at him and try to relax around him. The fluttering of her inner muscles around his fingers nearly has him grinding into her hip, but he keeps himself in check as he begins to move again. She’s still so wet but with her stretched around him he can feel the heavy friction of his movements. 

Amira practically mewls at the slow drag of his fingers inside of her. And when he curls those same fingers to press against her walls she nearly bucks into his hand. He can feel her legs starting to tremble and he presses them more closely together to keep her steady, still holding his hips back slightly. But he allows his hand to press more firmly against her, the ridge of muscle beneath his thumb pressing directly against her clit. She cries out at the dual stimulation, and as he picks up the pace her hips rock back against his hand, creating a steady rhythm against the little bundle of nerves to match his thrusts. He can tell she’s getting close already.

“Kiss me,” she breathes out. 

And he nearly freezes, thinking she’s asking him to remove his helmet, and he’s...he can’t. As much as he wants to, even though he never understood the urge before her - it’s not their way. But she’s nuzzling her forehead against the bottom edge of his helmet, and he suddenly recognizes her meaning. The hand still tangled in her hair tilts her head back so he can press his forehead against hers. At this angle he can just see the edge of her smile. And it’s enough, just like this - it has to be.

Because he can already start to feel her hips losing some of their rhythm, and does his best to maintain his pace against the fluttering of her inner walls. And then she’s letting out a sharp cry and clenching down hard around the fingers within her, and he tries to slow his movements as she rides out her release.

She’s still smiling up at him even as she tries to catch her breath, nuzzling again at the edge of his helmet. When her body drops back against the wall he’s finally forced to withdraw his fingers, pulling back to finally look at her. 

He groans at the sight. She looks completely debauched, hair wild and skin flushed everywhere, her hands still holding up her skirts and her underclothes in utter disarray, and he can see everything. The Mandalorian takes a few moments to memorize the sight, knowing he’s not going to be satisfied with another workout this time.

* * *

As soon he sends Amira off to the fresher, refusing once again her offers to assist him, he’s swiftly locking himself in his bunk and ridding himself of his belt. Within seconds he’s pulled himself out, tugging at his cock with fingers still slick from her and the memory of her tight around him burning him from the inside out.

* * *

She comes back into the living area a little after he does, fully dressed and her hair pulled back loosely with an elastic tie.

Sensing that he’s noticing the sudden presence of the hair tie, she grins, “it’s just a broken finger, I’m not exactly an invalid.”

And he should be annoyed that she’s had him braiding her hair every morning when clearly she could manage just fine on her own, but in the privacy of his own mind he can admit he enjoyed helping her almost as much as she did. And even knowing she can handle things on her own, he still offers up his help for making their morning meal, oddly more pleased to know she’s just allowing him to help more than she actually needs it.

Another Stormtrooper drops by without any updates but he does bring back Amira’s music collection. Though, as she had predicted, her bootleg history audio disks aren’t returned. In their place are some old holovids, obviously pre-approved by the Empire. He reads off the titles to Amira.

“Forces of Destiny, Onward to Victory, Adventures of Starkiller, Victims of the Past, The Empress’s Gambit...”

She offers up a grim smile. “I’m fairly certain these are just the propaganda films they show the Stormtroopers.”

“Maybe not Adventures of Starkiller, I think I heard of that one a long time ago. Before the Empire.”

“Knowing my Uncle, it’s probably a film for children, but let's put it on anyway,” she shrugs, before grinning, “what else are we going to do without ourselves all afternoon?”

Though his brain offers up several very interesting suggestions, thankfully his mouth just asks “what would we even play it on?”

“There was an old holovid player here when I moved in, I think it’s still stored in my closet. You’ll have to help me get it down though.”

He follows her into her bedroom and for a minute he half expects this is another ploy, even though they just… but then she’s actually rifling through her closet, and he finds himself feeling disappointed instead of relieved like he should. Amira pushes past a dozen dresses he’s never even seen her wear, feeling around the top shelf until he hears her pleased little ‘ _found it!’_ ringing out.

And she apparently really did need his help, because the player is old and clunky, too heavy and too high up for her to bring down on her own. He drags the thing out to the living area, and Amira directs him to set it up on the small table in front of the couch. He hopes the table will be able to hold the machine. 

Somehow it manages to, and the disk goes into it without much fuss. The holo starts up, and it suddenly occurs to him.

“How will you…” he snaps his mouth shut before he can finish the question, but Amira just smiles.

“If it’s a children’s holo like I think it is, it shouldn’t be too hard to follow along with just the sound. Otherwise you’ll just have to tell me what’s happening.”

The Mandalorian is a little surprised how easily she asks him to tell her this. He can’t recall her ever asking another person to describe what’s happening in front of her, always insistent on figuring it out for herself. It doesn’t help that he’s noticed most people tend to describe things visually, and he can see her impatience with people who try to explain colors or lighting to her - though no one else ever seems to notice this reaction. He’s tried to be more careful to describe things in terms of touch and sound and taste and smell, and she seems not to mind him doing this as much as she minds it from others. But this is the first time she’s actually asked him for it directly.

It makes him think back to their earlier conversation, him telling her she could just ask for the things she wanted. And she certainly did ask. But he really shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, not when he’s about to sit with her and watch some kid’s holovid.

He tries to clear his mind and focus on the holo as he sits back on the couch. But as soon as he’s settled back Amira is sidling up under his arm, curling contentedly into his side like a loth-cat. Her knees are propped up on his thigh and her bare arm is underneath his gloved hand and he finds he’s completely distracted by this for the entire beginning of the holo. It’s not until Amira asks him who the new character speaking is that he realizes he has no idea what is happening.

Fortunately for him, it really does turn out to be a kid’s holo, and it’s obvious by the character’s tall boots and black cape that he’s probably the villain. The Mandalorian is surprised the Empire didn’t notice how much the villain in this was costumed like so many Imperial officials. But irony often seemed to escape most Imps, in his experience.

As the holo continues to play, the obvious tropes continue, and the plot holes widen.

“So why did the princess allow herself to be captured to get into the base, when Starkiller was able to so easily sneak in and get her out? Why didn’t she just sneak in herself without having to get thrown in prison?”

“Probably so that Starkiller could save her.” It’s the plot of all these old adventure holos.

“Why not just let the princess rescue herself?”

“Because that’s how she falls for Starkiller,” he shrugs.

“That’s silly. She could save herself _and_ fall for Starkiller. You don’t need to be rescued to fall in love.”

He’s not exactly sure what to say to that, but he’s spared from having to come up with a response when she sighs and drapes herself even further across his lap, clearly exhausted by the ridiculousness of the holo. Unfortunately, the unyielding armor around his thighs means she’s wiggling backwards to the softer spots between, which puts her squirming body far too close to…

“We don’t have to keep watching. Listening.” He corrects himself quickly, voice tight as he tries to ignore the situation happening in his lap.

“It’s alright, we’ve come this far already.”

Despite her words, he can tell she’s mostly lost interest in the film. He can admit he’s mostly lost interest as well, particularly with her soft limbs pressing against new parts of him. He’s finally forced to rearrange her into a less precarious position, returning her head to the spot under his arm and tugging her legs up across his lap. Here she’s less likely to press too firmly against something she shouldn’t, even though it’s hard to call their position anything but cuddling at this point.

It should feel strange to him. He’d never been much of a cuddler in the past. It was too indulgent, left a man vulnerable for far too long. And none of his past lovers ever seemed to feel much differently. But even with Amira’s soft weight pinning him to the couch, her legs blocking his blaster from easy access, he doesn’t feel himself itching to get free like he normally would. 

Maybe it was the lack of any real danger for the past couple months that had him growing soft. Or maybe it was just the pleasant warmth of the woman curled up into him, the clean smell of her hair and skin sneaking up under his helmet, that made him not mind being at a disadvantage here. He was frankly used to being at a disadvantage around her. He’d been with women before who could take him in a fight, but he’s never felt himself so thoroughly disarmed by anyone before. And he’d definitely never enjoyed it quite so much.

And speaking of enjoying things too much, Amira has apparently decided to resume her quest to find the most comfortable spot and practically pulled herself up to sit in his lap.

“Your blaster was digging into my knee,” she explains into his neck. He almost imagines he can feel her breath there through the duraweave.

His mind is too full of her immediate presence to sort out whether or not this is a real excuse.

“You can just ask.” He grits out the reminder, hoping she’ll put him out of his misery either way.

“Would you mind setting your blaster aside then?” She asks sweetly, and he thinks he might be going a little mad.

But still he does what she asks, and she ends up squirming in his lap again as they both settle back. “Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you,” she hums against his neck. Somehow the vibrations go straight to his cock.

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m…” and it’s almost like he can feel the exact moment she notices. “Is there something _you_ wanted to ask?”

His tongue is suddenly heavy in his mouth. 

But with far more grace than her earlier squirming, she turns to face him more fully, shifting her legs to either side of his hips.

“You haven’t asked for anything for yourself yet.”

“I don’t need anything for myself,” he lies, only half-hoping she’ll believe him.

It’s obvious from her expression she doesn’t, and when she slides a little further into his lap it gets even harder to deny the truth.

“Everyone has needs, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She holds herself back just a little, not quite close enough to press the issue but close enough to drive him mad with the need to pull her in. The same distance he’s been trying to maintain for himself ever since they started this. To keep this being about her, to deny himself so she won’t realize he can’t ever be enough for her. And he should be ashamed of it, how much he needs her. Not just like this, but how much he needs her smiles, her trust. Needs her to believe he can be a good man, at least to her.

But he’s also come to depend on her nearness, thriving on the feel of her small hand tucked trustingly into the bend of his elbow. The growing strength of her whole body as she pushes back against him in their lessons. The way she’ll kiss him the only way he’s able to offer her. 

And maybe he’ll never be enough for her, but she’s never asked for anything more than he can give. All she’s asking now is that he doesn’t push her away. And right now he doesn’t think he could deny either one of them.

Her hands come up tentatively, running along the pauldrons at his shoulders down to the softer duraweave along his upper arms. Her touch is featherlight, but he’s hyper aware of the slightest rasp of the fabric against the skin underneath. Her hands trail over to his chestplate coming to rest on his heart, and he wonders if she can feel it beating rapidly beneath the beskar armor. Still, she doesn’t move any further forward, waiting for him to say something, anything.

Instead he allows his hands to drift up to her hips, tugging her minutely forward. And it’s enough to tell her what she needs to know, and he sees her smile at the gesture. 

While he’s watching her expression, her hands start to trail downward. He finally catches on when they brush against his belt, and he catches her wrists gently before they can dip further down.

“You’re injured,” he quickly reminds her, squeezing the wrist of her splinted hand.

Amira huffs out a sigh in his lap, and it’s so completely her that he nearly laughs. But then she is smiling again, and slowly sliding backwards.

“I don’t have to use my hands,” she grins.

She’s nearly off his lap and slipping between his knees before his brain catches up with what’s happening. 

He tugs her back up with the hands still wrapped around her wrists, thinking that he is in no way prepared to survive her following through with her plan. But he pulls her back so quickly she winds up falling straight into him, and by the time she’s untangled her legs she’s back to straddling him, only far closer than before. She attempts to pull herself back upright without the use of her hands, the movement only settling her more heavily on his hardening cock. He groans at the sudden pressure, hips bucking reflexively against her warmth.

She smiles at the response, pressing her hips into his once more.

“Is this ok?” She asks, rocking gently against him.

He grunts out something like a yes, as his hands finally release her wrists to drift to her hips once more, gloved fingers digging into the material gathered there. Her uninjured hand comes down to press at one hand, encouraging him to tug her gown up further. This allows her to press even closer along the hard line of his cock through his trousers. Despite the duraweave still thick between them he almost imagines he can feel the warmth of her core seeping in as she continues the slow roll of her hips against him. He sighs at the feel of her.

“Is this enough? Can you…”

He can already hear the way her breathing has become a little less even, see the way her skin flushes so beautifully, and he thinks that he can. He hasn’t done anything like this since he was a teenager, but after days - weeks - of wanting, just the sight of her practically riding him already has him throbbing almost painfully against the fabric of his trousers. He nods quickly, and then, remembering, squeezes at the soft swell of her hips to tell her that yes, he’s fairly certain he can come from just this.

Especially as her hips begin to rock a little faster, and her hands start to drift over him. She’s careful enough with her bandaged hand, but he can feel her seeking out all the spots between his armor. Squeezing at his upper arms, tracing the small space between his pauldrons and his breastplate, brushing along his rib cage, pressing into the muscles of his abdomen. He follows her touch everywhere, pressing back against her small hands, and finally allows himself to push carefully up against her core, earning him a gasp from the woman above him.

“You can touch me too,” she breathes out.

He realizes his own hands are still gripping tightly at her hips. He unclenches his fingers, allowing them to drift carefully upwards along her sides, tracing the silhouette he’s only managed glimpses of before. His fingers circle her waist gently, thumbs brushing over soft skin as he feels the muscles beneath working in time with her movements. 

He then allows his hands to drift even further upwards to trace along her ribs, fingers brushing at the undersides of her breasts. Each time they do, he can hear Amira’s breath stuttering, and see as she tries to press forward into his hands. He grins beneath his helmet as she arches further into him with each pass, pleased he can drive her half as crazy as she makes him all the time. But after only a few minutes of teasing she is reaching for his hands, tugging them up where they both want them to be. Amira moans at the first gentle squeeze of his hands and he moves to finally cup her breasts. 

He wishes she was still in her night dress, almost as much as he regrets he is still wearing his gloves.

“Off! _Off!_ ” Apparently Amira has also grown impatient with the presence of his gloves.

Unfortunately he has to pull his hands away from her to tug off his bracers and his gloves, an action that is only made more difficult by the restless grind of her hips against his. 

Her hips buck against him even harder at the first brush of his bare fingers against the stiff peaks of her nipples. There is still her dress between them, but nothing beneath but warm flesh and the rapid beat of her pulse. He can feel his own heartbeat hammering against his breastplate, sweat gathering beneath the duraweave even though Amira is doing almost all the work, the fabric of his pants dragging roughly over his cock but it’s still so perfect. He’s already way too close after days of teasing and now this.

For every roll of her hips he can feel himself rising to meet her, and his breathing is ragged beneath his helmet. Amira doesn’t seem to be doing any better, and he’s pleased to see how much this is affecting her as well. 

One of his hands reaches again for her hip, drawing her in even closer until the friction between them is almost unbearable. His other hand drifts to her face, bare fingers tracing along the plush skin of her part lips, stuttering breath warm against his fingertips. And then she takes his hand in her own and leans forward to nip at his finger and suddenly it is too much. He falls deliriously over the edge, as a choked out sound is ripped from his throat, His fingers clutch at her side as his hips jerk up into her, release spilling into the fabric of his pants.

Amira continues to rock gently against him, until the friction becomes too much against his oversensitized flesh. He pulls her closer to still her hips, clinging to her as he rides out the last twitches of his orgasm.

After a few steadying breaths, he slips his hand down beneath her skirts, intent at finishing what he started. But strangely, she halts him.

“You didn’t…”, he starts.

She shakes her head, the gesture far too adorable considering their current context. 

“This was for you,” she smiles, reaching up to press her lips to the brow of his helmet, before sitting back on his thighs. “Well, mostly for you,” she grins.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra helping of lockdown smut for everyone stuck under quarantine! And a scene snuck in just for GlamorousGamine ;)
> 
> With AO3 no longer tracking logged out users, don't forget to log in and reach out to one another!


	11. Shatter

The Mandalorian manages to remember his helmet this time as he’s once again woken by the sound of Amira’s night terrors. 

But there’s still the same panic, the same instinct to protect her even as he realizes she’s alone in the room. Everything is toppled, as it had been before, while Amira lies struggling within the tangle of her bedsheets.

Something glints in the dim light coming from the living area, shining back all around her. What looks like glass. Fearing Amira will cut herself on the shards he tears off the sheets, lifting her quickly away from the mattress. She’s still thrashing in his arms when she finally wakes.

It surprises him how disoriented she seems, but she finally begins to relax when she recognizes him.

“Mandalorian? Where am I?”

He realizes she’ll have no idea where she is with nothing but himself to orient her.

“Your room. There was glass.” He offers by way of explanation. Her face seems to puzzle for a second before softening.

“There was a vase, I must have…” 

She starts trying to let herself down but he only grips her more tightly.

“There could be more on the floor.”

He doesn’t let her down until he’s brought her out to the living area, quickly switching on the lights to check her over for cuts. He’s still a little dazed from waking so suddenly - he chides himself for sleeping so deeply, no matter how safe his current situation appears - while Amira is still half-asleep and collapsing against him as he tries to inspect the bare skin revealed by her night dress. Between them, very little manages to get accomplished.

“I’m alright, I promise. Just let me…” she starts making her way towards the couch to go back to sleep and he scoops her up again without quite fully thinking about it.

“Mandalorian?”

He knows he can’t let her sleep out here - especially not on that couch, which would surely grind any stray shards of glass deeper into her skin. And more than that it would leave her too vulnerable out here where anyone could enter and she would be entirely defenseless. But her room would be similarly unsafe until it had been thoroughly cleaned. Which really only leaves one place.

It is probably a testament to her own tired state that she allows herself to be settled down onto his small cot without question. Here it is much easier to look her over, even if he has to ignore the fact she is lying here in his bed, still in her translucent night dress. He sits beside the low cot, swiftly but carefully lifting each limb to check it over. Amira lets out an annoyed sound when he prompts her to roll to each side, but she submits to his inspection with a fight. Though as usual, she seems to know her own skin pretty well, and thankfully there isn’t a single mark on her. Figuring out how she managed to sleep-walk a path of destruction through her room without getting a single scratch seems to clearly be a problem for the morning. He allows himself to relax back against the edge of the cot, his body finally catching up with just how tired he still is. They couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours - even if that was longer than he’d normally slept in one go. He is definitely getting too soft out here.

He hears Amira moving around behind him, sees her feet sliding over the edge of the bed to softly meet the ground. He presses her back against the cot, tugging the sheet up over her.

“I can’t steal your bed Mandalorian, I can sleep on the couch,” she protests, pressing weakly back against the arms that try to keep her on the cot. 

“It’s not safe out there, you’d be too far away. I’ll take the couch,” he assures her as he moves to stand.

Her small hand grips his arm more strongly than he expects, given her exhausted state. “If it’s not safe you shouldn’t sleep out there either.”

It still catches him off guard, her strange protectiveness over him. Not many people would worry about a Mandalorian bounty hunter. But he’s the one who’s been assigned to protect her, not the other way around, so he’ll be taking the couch.

“The couch is too small for you to sleep on,” she tries a different tack.

She’s not wrong - the couch is barely big enough for her to curl up on, he’d never fit with all of his armor. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“But…”

“I’ve slept on worse.”

There’s no question of them sharing the cot, even if he allows himself the possibility. It’s longer than the couch, but nowhere near wide enough to fit two full adults on. Especially not with his armor. 

Still, she seems reluctant to let him sleep out in the living area, even though she had originally planned to herself. She appears to have taken his questioning of its safety a little too much to heart. But it’s too early in the morning to try and sort it out now. So instead he just grabs his rucksack to place under his helmet as he stretches out on the floor beside her.

“How about this?”

“Much better,” he can practically hear her relief as she finally settles into his pillow.

“Just don’t try to knock me out again,” he attempts to lighten her mood, reminding her of the last time he was in the same room with her as she slept.

But she suddenly freezes up, “I don’t, I can’t remember...what did I do?”

She sounds more than a little panicked, and he’s quick to reassure her, “you just knocked me one when I was trying to wake you. Should be safe with my helmet on this time.”

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea…”

And it probably isn’t, but he’s not so much worried about her sleepwalking around his bunk as he is her trying to clean up the glass herself or sleeping out where he can’t protect her. “It’s alright, just get some sleep.”

“Mandalorian?” comes a quiet whisper from above him.

He lets out a sound to let her know he’s listening.

“Could I put my hand on your armor so I know it’s you there?”

“If you think it will help.”

“I’m not sure, it’s been a long time since I’ve slept in the same room as someone. But I think - if I know it’s you there - I probably won’t have any nightmares. So you’ll be safe too.”

He’s fairly certain he doesn’t need any protection from a sleeping woman half his size, but if this will help her, he doesn’t mind the press of her small hand reaching down to slip along the nearest part of his armor. Which happens to be his pauldron, but her hand slides down to rest against the duraweave right below it, so they can both feel her fingers curling gently around his upper arm. 

He thinks this might help him as well, knowing she’s safe right here beside him and nothing can get at her without meeting him first. And perhaps it will keep his own nightmares at bay.

* * *

He dreams that night of darkness, though it doesn’t frighten him. The darkness, at least. There’s a general sense of unease to his dream that he can’t pinpoint, but he has no sense of wanting to look for it. He just feels it, like something rippling in the air around him. He tightens his fingers at something in his grasp, or maybe he feels fingers touching him, but it’s strangely reassuring. He tries to hold on.

* * *

Despite these uneasy dreams, they both sleep through the rest of the night without incident. He awakes feeling more well rested than usual - which is unsurprising considering the late hour - but the rest of the day is filled with a strange sense of awareness of their confinement. 

Most of their morning is spent with him clearing out the remains of a shattered vase from Amira’s bedroom, for which she presses a quick kiss to the edge of his helmet in thanks, but then she shoos him off to finish setting to rights the rest of her room. She comes out of the orderly room fully dressed, with her hair already pulled back by a small band. He’s surprised she doesn’t wish for another braid, especially with nothing else to fill their afternoon. But for the rest of the day, Amira simply wanders the small apartment aimlessly, and the Mandalorian finds himself checking over his weapons and armor several times just to have something to do. 

He considers offering her another kind of distraction, but immediately tamps down on that thought. Amira’s body language isn’t exactly suggesting she wants anything but freedom from this apartment, and it didn’t feel right to bring up the subject unless she does. Otherwise it stopped being about her and too much about admitting his own needs.

And so it’s a relief when the rather chatty Stormtrooper from several days ago stops by with their rations, and assures them the Marshal has found a suspect and they’ll probably be out by tomorrow if the interrogation yields results. He walks back to the kitchen to tell Amira the news.

“Did they say who they’re questioning?” Amira asks offhandedly, far less excited about the possibility of the lockdown ending than he had expected - especially given her behavior today.

“Know a lot of rebels?” He jokes, but she just gives an unpracticed shrug. 

He considers that she knows many of the villagers, and the name had sounded a little vaguely familiar to his own ears. But he didn’t recognize it as one of her friends - a fairly short list - so he figures there’s no harm in telling her.

“It was a friend of one of the escaped prisoners, a Marcus Orikan.”

Amira stills a little at the name but otherwise doesn’t seem to have much of a reaction. She simply goes back to storing away their ration kits, holding up each tin so he can read out the label as she arranges them into some meaningful order. Though she appears to be only half-listening as she stacks a tin of instant bread on top of several pre-cooked stews. He tries to guess at what she’s thinking, but he’s distracted by a sharp gasp and Amira clutching at her hand.

He rushes over to help but Amira halts him, “It’s nothing, I just believe I found a small sliver of glass from last night. Would you mind getting my kit out of the fresher? I believe it has a pair of tweezers in it...”

He walks more swiftly to the fresher than is probably necessary for such a minor injury, but along the way he is berating himself for not checking her over again in the day’s light. He begins to check through each drawer, looking for the kit mentioned, and is caught off guard by the sound of the door sliding shut behind him.

He turns and presses the keypad to exit, but the door remains closed to him. The unlock key yields the same results.

He calls out Amira’s name, but is met only with silence from the other side. He quickly tries several of the override codes he had learned from her, but the keypad remains unresponsive. His next thought is to throw himself at the door, but like all doors in the military compound it is completely solid. A blaster bolt to the durasteel mostly bounces back towards him, and he’s forced to duck. A more careful bolt to the keypad only knocks off the plate from the wiring beneath. 

It takes several minutes of rewiring the keypad - with the help of the tweezers he finally locates - to release himself from the fresher. The apartment is empty, and there is nothing to indicate Amira hadn’t left of her own volition. 

But why leave now when they were soon to be released? And why lock him in? When he finds the front door keypad similarly locked and unresponsive he knows there has been no mistake and she clearly didn’t intend for him to follow her. But whether she wishes him to follow or not he is duty-bound to look after her, and knowing the kind of trouble she can get herself into has him nearly turning his disruptor at the door. 

It takes less than a minute to patch through the keypad this time and force the door open, though by now she has at least a ten minute head start on him. He checks the hallways for any sign of troopers, not wanting to alert anyone else in the compound that Amira is out on her own. He tries to rationalize that he could lose this job if it’s found out, but his first thought is still to keep Amira safe. Even when she’s the greatest danger to herself.

He manages to dodge the evening patrols, heading swiftly for the courtyard. It seems like a rather mad plan to ditch her bodyguard just so she could visit the gardens but with the impulsiveness of this plan he can’t imagine she’s fully thinking things through.

He’s surprised to find a sense of relief slips into the disappointment of finding the gardens empty. At least she wasn’t just trying to get away from him if she isn’t here. But he’s unsure where to look next. He can’t imagine she’d run to her uncle, and he’s certainly not about to check for her there and alert the Marshal to the fact she’s missing. Would she have tried to leave the compound on her own?

At the sudden echoing of alarms through the hallways, he realizes exactly where he’ll find Amira - and finally recognizes why Marc’s name sounded so familiar.

* * *

The Mandalorian rushes to the cargo bay, barely escaping notice from the Stormtroopers that mostly all seem to be running in the opposite direction. He prays he’s not wrong about this.

It’s a much faster path through the hallways, with no vents or machinery to dodge, but it feels like it takes far too long. He arrives at the bay just in time to see a flash of red hair as a figure leaps down from the ceiling vent - Marva’s grandson, how had he not realized before? - with Amira leading him down. He can see the exact moment when she realizes they’re no longer alone in the room. 

She looks more frightened than he’s ever seen her before, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at him. He hears the bootsteps of two troopers coming in behind him, heading right towards Amira and Marcus.

He barely has time to think before his blaster is out and he’s turning back to fire at the troopers. They don’t seem to expect this from him and he’s already fired off several bolts before they even return fire. He knocks the weapon away from one and concentrates his blasts at the other. Most of the bolts glance off the beskar but several graze his arms and side - as the man keeps approaching his armor will become less and less effective. So the minute he is in range the Mandalorian turns his flamethrower on him, forcing him to fall back as he chokes on the flames. The unarmed guard uses the moment of distraction to try and come at him from the side but is swiftly caught by the Mandalorians grappling hook, the fibercord wrapping tightly around his neck. A sharp pull from the bounty hunter leads to a sickening crunch, and the trooper finally falls to the floor. 

When he looks back to Amira she’s rushing Marcus through the opened personnel door, before turning to him with a complicated expression across her face. He’s so focused on trying to read her expression he sees the widening of blind eyes before he feels the blaster bolt hitting his right hand.

The seering burn of the bolt forces him to drop his weapon, and he turns back to see the charred trooper from before is now standing with a blaster aimed directly at him.

“I always knew it was a bad idea bringing in a Mandalorian to look after the Marshal’s little brat. I guess it’s down to me to remedy that mistake.”

The Mandalorian watches as the trooper’s weapon is pointed towards the spot right below his beskar - a kill shot at this range. There’s no chance of him reaching his blaster first.

“Mandalorian!” He hears Amira cry out behind him, right as the Stormtrooper is thrown back into the wall by some unseen force.

The trooper falls back like a ragdoll, sliding down the wall and crumpling onto the floor. Amira nearly collides with his back in her rush to meet him.

“Are you alright?”

Her question makes about as much sense as anything else that has happened this evening - which is to say none.

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically, looking back and forth between the woman at his side and the crumpled body on the ground.

“Where’s your blaster?” 

“On the ground.” 

He doesn’t even question when she reaches down to pick it up in her uninjured hand. She walks over to the body, bending down to inspect it. He realizes she’s feeling blindly for the spots between what remains of his armor, thinking she’s checking to make sure he’s dead. But then she’s awkwardly shoving his blaster between the plates and firing off a bolt into his ribs.

She stands easily to hand back his weapon, “I guess I should explain…”

It’s certainly an understatement, and he’s about to tell her something to that effect before the sound of more bootsteps reaches his ears. Amira ducks behind him, looking worried in a way that makes very little sense considering he’s fairly certain she just threw a man into a wall with her mind.

“Please just trust me…”

And despite all that has just happened, he finds he still does. So he remains steadily in front of her, gripping his blaster and ignoring the ache from the earlier hit as the footsteps reach the cargo bay.

The Marshal is out in front of several Stormtroopers and the Mandalorian tries to rapidly figure out if that means he should lower his blaster or not. Thankfully, Amira saves him from making this decision when she runs out at the sound of her uncle’s voice.

“Uncle! Thank goodness it’s you,” she rushes to take Gideon’s hand, and the Mandalorian realizes it’s possibly the first time he’s ever seen her reach out to the man. “They told me they would take us to you, but they tried to take me out of the compound. They tried to kill my bodyguard too but he rescued me...”

When she turns back to indicate him he sees tears shining in her eyes, something else he can’t ever recall seeing from the woman before. But it seems to have the Marshal’s attention as he orders the fallen troopers brought in for interrogation if they still live. The Mandalorian is sure neither of them will be able to contradict her story.

“But what of the prisoner?” He asks her.

“What prisoner, Uncle?” She asks back calmly, despite the tears.

“The one who escaped!” He responds with far less calm, “surely you couldn’t have missed all of the alarms going off?”

“I didn’t know anything, maybe they used the distraction to try and sneak me out…”

And this the Mandalorian has seen before - the ease at which she can lie to her uncle. And how readily she can appear helpless when he now recognizes that she is anything but. He also realizes she’s done this to him too. More than once.

But despite this, and the fact she had tried to trap him earlier, he also recognizes that her lies are also protecting him. That the Stormtrooper she killed hadn’t been aiming at her, but at himself. 

“And what do you know about this, Mandalorian?” Gideon’s voice cuts sharply through his thoughts.

“When the alarms went off everyone ran to the holding cells,” it’s certainly not untrue to say, “they must have seen the opportunity to sneak out the cargo bay.”

“Is there no security in this place? What is the point of any of you!” He shouts to the guards around him. “Mandalorian, escort my niece back to her apartment. I trust you will make certain her safe return.”

The words feel more like a threat than any sort of commendation, so he simply offers a nod and takes Amira by the arm, leading her out into the emptied hallway. Her arm feels shaky beneath his hand, but she doesn’t try to remove its guidance.

The trip back to her apartment is a silent one.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow posting, and for leaving everything like this :O
> 
> Once again thank you for everyone has been supporting what is now my longest fic I've ever written (and still 5 more chapters to go). Everyone's lovely comments have really kept me going!


	12. Revelations

His mind is racing with a hundred different questions as they make their retreat back to her apartment. But as soon as they’re out of sight of the Stormtroopers, Amira all but collapses into his side - whatever had just happened back there seems to have drained her of all of her energy. She cries out faintly as her forehead knocks against his pauldron. Her arm clutches at his elbow but her grip is weak, and he’s forced to catch her around the waist before her legs give out beneath her. 

For an instant, the thought that this too might be an act forces its way into his thoughts. But there’s no faking the trembling of her limbs, the worrying palor of her skin, or the bruise that’s blooming on her forehead where she collided with his armor. And he doesn’t know what else to do other than to prop her up and push them quickly ahead. Their story was pretty thin, and there’s no telling what the Marshal will do if he figures it out. There’s no way to get out of the compound right now but at least back at the apartment he’ll have his weapons. And maybe some answers.

As soon as they cross the threshold Amira seems to grow even more unsteady, and so he leads her to the small couch and tries to ease her onto it. But even as she sits she clings to his wrist with shaking arms, “your hand, it’s still hurt…”

They’re the first words she’s spoken to him since she asked him to trust her, and it catches him off guard. The normally composed woman is pale and trembling in front of him, looking halfway to fainting even as the words are forced out brokenly, and for some reason she’s fretting over his damn hand. 

“It’s fine,” he assures her, tugging his hand from her grasp. Normally her touch would keep him grounded, but right now it only makes him feel even more unsteady. He takes a step back, ignoring the hurt expression that crosses her face as she lets her own hands fall.

“It isn’t fine,” she chokes out. “I’m so sorry, Mandalorian, I never meant for you to get mixed up in any of this.” Her voice comes out weakly, her pale eyes shutting as she turns her face from him.

His first instinct is still to reach out and comfort her, but he resists that urge, crossing his arms in front of him. He gazes down at her face, looking for any sign that this is another kind of manipulation. But for how easily she can lie with her words, she’s never quite been able to rein in her expression. And right now all he can read of her face is her remorse. Whatever she had hidden from him, she hadn’t meant for him to get hurt - for all the good that did.

And so he contemplates asking her just what ‘this’ is that she’s gotten them into, until he realizes he can already guess at the answer. 

“The other morning, I didn’t hear you leave your room, I heard you come in.”

It’s a statement, not a question. But she answers anyway.

“Yes.”

“And Marcus?”

“He was guiltless. I couldn’t just leave him with them, to be tortured until they forced him to confess to the crimes I had committed.”

It doesn’t escape him that she has referred to her crimes in the plural. 

The Marshal warning him about multiple security leaks leaps into his thoughts. The way the rebels always seemed to know exactly where and when to raid Imperial shipments or free the prison transports. Was this all her doing as well?

He thinks back to the easy way she navigated the compound’s security, her strange conversations outside its wall. The way everyone had always underestimated her - even him.

But there’s so much more he’s still missing. Most importantly - “why?”

“Surely - Mandalorian, surely you know what the Empire does to the planets it conquers,” she finally turns to face him.

And he does. All too well. He will never forget that the Empire reduced his once great people to barely more than scavengers, forced into hiding among the Outer Rim planets. Even he doesn’t know how many of their number still remain. His family…

“Your uncle?”

“He’s not my uncle.” Her voice is sharp, despite being little more than a whisper.

More things are starting to become clear. “Your parents, did he -”

“No, my parents died in a civil war on our planet, even before the Empire came.” She pauses for a long moment, and he nearly asks her again before she finally continues. “Gideon took me away from the conflict, and I suppose I owe him for that, if for nothing else. But he left my mother and father there to be killed, and for that I am happy to stand back and let his Empire collapse around him.”

The coldness of her voice nearly shocks him, though he’s just seen first hand how easily she could betray the Empire. How easily she had dispatched one of its soldiers without hesitation. And how deliberately she had left him in the dark this whole time, left him behind.

“And you thought I would warn him of your plans?” 

It’s this thought that’s been tearing at his insides ever since he had understood what she had done. That she didn’t trust him. That she thought he’d side with Gideon, with the Empire. 

Her expression softens as her face turns up towards him.

“No, Mandalorian. I never once thought you would betray me.” 

Relief floods him

“Then why -”

“Because you panic over my getting a bruised shoulder or scraped knee,” a brief glimmer of a smile as she reminds him of this, “I worried you might try and stop me. Or worse - that you would offer to help and get yourself hurt because of me.”

He can feel something in his chest loosen at the answer. That she hadn’t kept this hidden out of mistrust, but out of some misguided sense of protectiveness over him. All of the fight goes out of him with her words, and he finally allows himself to drop to sit on the table across from her, letting out a sigh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“I should be the one protecting you.”

“I told you the first night we met that I never needed a bodyguard. I wanted to protect you. Tonight you almost...”

He watches as she takes a shaky breath.

“That Stormtrooper, he would have killed you.”

And there it was - the real question. The rest, he could make sense of. But not how she knew just how close that Stormtrooper was to taking him out. Or how the man ended up tossed against the wall.

“What did you - “

“I stopped him. I killed him.” 

He can’t quite think of a way to ask her just how she managed to do this.

“Did you know you could do that?”

“I told you before that I could fire a blaster if the target was close enough.”

The words feel like the punchline to some terrible joke, except she’s not smiling. The Mandalorian’s head drops wearily at her response. Either she can hear the creak of the beskar or she can just tell he’s too tired for any more evasions, because she finally relents.

“Yes, I knew. I think I’ve always known, to some degree. Though I had never thought I’d be capable of controlling it like that until I thought that you...”

The Mandalorian has long ago put away any fear of his own death. But this, this terrifies him - the realization of just how much Amira cares for him. And all she has done to protect him, how much she’s risked for his sake. 

He’s never resented more the divergent paths the universe has put them on. For all that life has dealt her, and for all the crimes she has committed, she is still good in a way he will never be. And she is capable of more love than he thinks he’s ever known. 

It’s more than he’s able to deal with right now.

And so he asks instead, “does Gideon know?” 

She smiles at him, seeing the question for the deflection it is. But her smile fades as she answers.

“Yes. It’s why he keeps me here, and why he’s so interested in keeping me safe.”

“The lessons - “

“His attempts at training me, at turning me into some kind of weapon for the Empire he believes he can wield,” she answers with barely withheld scorn for the idea. “But I’ve hidden the true extent of what I can do from him.”

He smiles at this, thinking if the Marshal only knew just what she was really capable of. How easily his weapon had been turned back against him. But then he’s faced with another question.

"And the bruises?"

"- are still nothing you need to fret over.” The Mandalorian realizes he’s just proved her earlier point. He can see in her expression that she’s just as aware of this. “I’ve only let on that I can levitate something small, and only for a short while. But he will occasionally throw an object at me to test whether or not I can catch it or deflect it, to see if I’m really trying my hardest. I simply allow them to hit me." 

The thought of this horrifies him, but she talks of it as if it is nothing.

"What if he throws something else at you? Something dangerous?" He questions.

Amira manages to draw herself up to her full seated height, posture suddenly rigid. "You mean what will I do when he aims a blaster at me to see if I'm holding back? I let that hit me too."

The movement has coincidentally stretched the mantle of her dress behind her, revealing the barest edge of the scar by her collarbone.

"Your shoulder?"

"Yes. Thankfully he only attempted that once."

He feels the anger building in him - anger at Gideon, at the Empire, at how easily Amira seems to dismiss the fact that her guardian shot her. Anger he had long since had to try and put away for fear it would destroy him. And he has to put it away once more, for the woman sitting in front of him.

But still he can’t stop himself from asking if that was all that had happened, half dreading the answer, but needing to know.

Amira doesn’t answer for a long time, and for a moment he worries she’s preparing to lie to him again, just to keep him from worrying. But she’s always been so quick with her words, her silence lets him know whatever she tells him, it will be the truth.

"One day he brought in one of his Stormtroopers. He put the blaster to his head to test me."

He already knows the answer to his next question. "You let him pull the trigger." 

"Yes."

Her voice is soft, but steady, and she doesn’t turn from him.

"Could you have stopped him?"

"Yes."

A long silence follows this admission. There’s so much more he wants to ask, but he can see what it’s taken for her to tell him this much already.

Still, she surprises him by answering the question he didn’t ask.

“I’m the one responsible for Marius’s death as well - the bodyguard who came before you. There was an old man singing songs of the resistance in the marketplace, gathering a small crowd with his words. Marius...he was going to shoot him, just to silence him. I didn’t even think about it - I just diverted the blast. But there was nowhere for it to go in the crowd but back at him, and so I let it happen.” Her voice is calm as she recollects the event, but the Mandalorian can see the slight tremor of her hands as she clutches them within her lap. “Later I told Gideon that another Stormtrooper had shot him, and none of the Neridiaans contradicted me. I had already been leaking information, so Gideon latched onto the idea of a traitor among his troops. And that’s when he brought you in.”

She gives a shaky little smile at the end of her story, the part where he enters into it. She hadn’t been so happy about this fact at the time, and now he can truly understand why. He wonders again that someone like him managed to earn the trust, the...care of this woman, who had been through so much already, and all of it coming from the people who were meant to keep her safe. He can feel the protectiveness rising within him once again, even if this story proves she’s certainly capable of taking care of herself. Just as she had told him when he met her.

But the Mandalorian is still torn between his awe at her abilities, the way she has used them to protect others, and the urge to shield her with his armor and keep her safe from all of this. Some mix of those two warring emotions also has him wanting to pull her into his arms, to feel the strength of her safely nestled against him. He’s held back by the knowledge that there’s still so much he doesn’t really know about her, so much she’s kept hidden from him. 

He wants to know it all, but he barely knows where to start.

“So you can deflect blaster fire, throw a grown man against the wall. Anything else?”

Another long pause from the woman in front of him. Again he recognizes she’s building up to some dire truth, but this pause seems to be more for his sake than her own. He wishes he had the words to assure her that nothing she’s told him so far - nothing she could possibly tell him - would make him afraid of her.

“I’ve only ever been able to do anything like that under extreme circumstances - when there is a life on the line. Most of the time it’s all I can do just to levitate an object that’s not even as heavy as one I could lift with my arms. It’s still hard for me to know where an object is if I can’t touch it. And I can’t always control this ability. If I’m upset, or when I’m sleeping.”

The destruction of her room during her night terrors finally makes sense, as well as her admission that she hadn’t been able to sleep near another person in a very long time. The Mandalorian recognizes how lonely living with that constant fear can be. But Amira’s fear is all for others, and not for herself. 

He’s not afraid, however, even though he can recognize now the times she has lost control of her abilities around him. He knows that she would never seriously hurt him. That she stayed with him through the night means this is not the admission she’s scared to make to him. The fact that she’s turning her face a little further from him means the next one is.

“But I can also...that is to say, I don’t always - but I am able to read thoughts,” she rushes out that last part, losing her usual composure in making the confession. She takes in another breath, and the rest comes out more evenly. “It’s easier, at least, than moving objects.”

Despite his earlier wish to assure her that nothing she could tell him would frighten him, he has to admit this makes him feel far more vulnerable than her physical powers ever could. There are things in his mind that should never be seen - least of all by her. Every awful thing that’s happened to him, the even worse things he’s done himself - or even just thought about - and she could just walk into his mind and see it all. 

But the fact that she’s still here, that she still believes he’s someone worth her friendship, worth risking her own secrets just to protect him - how could she have seen what is in his head and still feel that way?

Whether she’s reading his mind or it’s just easy enough to guess what he’s thinking right now, she answers his unasked question.

“I have read yours, Mandalorian. I needed to, at first, to make sure that I could trust you.”

And it makes sense, of course it does, considering her position. The fact that she’s telling him all of this, that he’s not dead right now like Marius and those other Stormtroopers, must mean whatever she read there made her trust him. 

“I only discovered that you were an honorable man. You keep the code of your people, and you look after those in your care. You’re a far better man than you realize.”

Something in his chest swells at her words, the feeling of it both awful and wonderful all at once. She smiles at him as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking. She probably does.

“I’m sorry,” she grins apologetically, “for such a quiet man you think very loudly. I can’t help it.”

This leads to another small moment of panic, followed by even more worry that she’ll hear those thoughts and think that he is afraid of her abilities. Of her.

“Don’t worry, I know that not every thought that comes into people’s mind means anything deeper about them. And I only feel surface thoughts and feelings, I can’t bring up anything deeper without potentially hurting someone. So I do my best to stay out of other people’s minds. But it’s harder to miss when those thoughts are directed at me.”

The Mandalorian considers all of the thoughts he’s had directed at the woman in front of him, all his frustrations and his fantasies. The shame of it settles deep within his belly. But Amira is still smiling at him, and he realizes she knew exactly what he was thinking right now and didn’t seem to find it objectionable. She must have known what he was thinking every time he touched her, and still she never pulled away. Encouraged him even.

He still itches to reach out to her now, but there’s one small question that’s weighing on him.

“When you were in my mind, did you see -”

“I don’t see anything,” she teases, and it feels almost like a return to the way things were before. But this does change things for both of them, and he has to know.

“My face,” he finishes. “What I look like under my helmet.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t, even. If I tried you would only appear as you think of yourself - which I imagine is with the helmet on - and not a true reflection of what you really look like. But I have no context for the visual thoughts in people’s minds. They are like a foreign language. I cannot read them, and they remain hidden from me.”

“I trust you,” he finally gives into the urge to take her hand with his own, drawing it from her lap - her still bandaged hand into his uninjured one. The fingers that aren’t splinted wrap around his own without hesitation. “So you don’t know what anyone looks like?”

“It’s never really mattered to me to know. I recognize people by the sound of their voice, or a particular scent that they have. By the way they touch me,” the slightest pressure of her grip draws his attention back to her hand in his own, “...and how they allow me to touch them.”

Her uninjured hand reaches out to feel for the edge of his helmet, fingers pressing gently against its side. The Mandalorian is aware that he feels no urge to draw away from her, as he does when most beings reach towards his helmet. There’s no fear of being unmasked by her. A small part of him almost wishes she had seen his face within his mind, to take that burden from him, though he knows it is not the way. 

It is this that scares him, how easily the woman in front of him has already worked her way beneath his armor, stripping him of all of his defenses. How instinctively he reaches out to comfort her, and accept her comfort in return. How her confession only makes him want to protect her even more.

He should be angry at her, for all that she has manipulated him, and put them both in danger. And he is angry - angry at all of the stupid risks she’s taken, at himself for not seeing it, for not protecting her before this. His anger at Gideon burns more darkly than all the rest, for the way he has tried to use Amira for his own ends. 

And Amira has used him as well, to maintain her charade of helplessness. But he can’t seem to bring himself to hold this against her. Without her lies, they would have never met. And somehow that possibility seems so much worse.

But still, he doesn’t know what any of this means for them. There is certainly no love lost between himself and the Empire, and he’d be just as happy to see the whole thing burn to the ground as Amira seems to be. But he also has a duty to what remains of his people, and unfortunately to the guild. He can’t just steal her away from all this. He’s as trapped as she is here.

He supposes he should be thankful she has no intentions of killing her uncle herself. He’s not entirely sure what he’d do if he was faced with the choice between crossing the guild - and betraying his people - and standing in her way. It’s then that he fully understands why she had hidden this from him.

He looks over to see her smiling up at him, and he wonders if she heard that thought. Her smile grows more repentant. 

“I promise you I’m not trying to listen. It’s just harder to control when someone touches me.”

She lowers her hand back from his helmet, and tries to release her other hand from his own, but he only holds it more tightly - still careful of her injuries. He moves to stand in front of her, gently guiding her up into his arms, every part of them touching - even with the armor between them. There’s no mistaking the gesture, and she falls into him with relief. 

He tries to think comforting thoughts, and not about the lingering pain in his injured hand - or about the softness of her small body pressed against his, the scent of her skin as it rises beneath his helmet. He practically feels her grin against his breastplate, and he almost wonders if this whole mind thing might go the other way as well. 

“We really should treat your hand…” she reminds him quietly.

“I’ll take care of it later.”

“But it’s finally my turn to help patch you up,” she half teases.

“You have some sort of magic healing powers as well?”

“No, but I think I can manage some bandages and some Verdiun for the pain. Do you think you’ll need microsuturing…?”

He can feel her pulling back to worry over his injury, and he responds by tugging her closer. He half wonders if this is her attempt at getting back at him for all the times he worried over every little bump and scrape, but her concern feels real.

“I’m fine, my glove took the brunt of it. It just stings a little.”

She seems to relax back against him for a moment, and he thinks to himself that the lingering pain doesn’t seem nearly so important as this. 

But then she’s jerking back out of his embrace, and practically rushing to the other side of the room. He only has a second to wonder at her behavior before familiar whooshing of the door announces their visitor.

The Marshal stands at the doorway, a scowl etched deeply upon his face.

“Pack your things. We’re leaving tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this took so long, obviously things are going pretty crazy right now and the archive was under maintenance for a bit. Anyway, a brief reprieve before we dive back into the plot! I'm sure you all already predicted most of what Mando finally figures out in this chapter :)


	13. Fyederar

Traveling to one of the Core planets had never been part of the bargain. 

The Mandalorian remains silent on this point even as they travel further and further into Imperial territory in a ship not his own. To mention it to Gideon would have meant being left behind, and leaving Amira to fend for herself on a brand new world. A world that will be nearly as dangerous to her as it will be to him.

Fyederar was once a planet rich in minerals, but now is swarming with Imperial troops protecting what little hasn’t yet been strip-mined from the planet’s mountains. Only the central city retains anything of the planet’s former opulence and beauty - the wealthiest residents living in crystalline skyscrapers that tower over the increasingly frequent dust storms that now plague the planet. 

This is apparently their destination, though they are told little more. Such as why here, and not another military installation closer by? Though the Mandalorian supposes that a city so deep within Imperial control would appear safer to a man fearing the reach of the Resistance. If only he knew he brought the Resistance along with him.

His lips twitch into a smile beneath his helmet for the first time since he discovered Amira’s secret. Now that he’s had time to reconcile with her reasoning for keeping this all hidden from him, he allows himself some small amusement at the Marshal’s scrambling to protect the weapon he doesn’t realize he’s turned on himself. Except that isn’t right at all, Amira isn’t a weapon, whatever her powers might be. The smile fades when he glances over at the woman in question, her expression placid to any casual observer but he can see the tension just beneath. This apparently hadn’t been part of her plan either.

Out here, she is without any ally - excluding himself, though he knows he won’t be much use on an unfamiliar planet that will view him with even more suspicion than Neridiaam. She won’t be able to even get around wherever they’re staying without an escort. From what he’s witnessed it can take her several days or weeks to build an effective mental map of a new area. Until that point she’ll be completely dependent on others, a situation he knows she hates. 

And so he doesn’t once bring up the specifics of their deal with Gideon, even if it means leaving the Razor Crest behind, and heading into hostile territory without a single clue where they’re heading or why. For the first time ever, he thinks Amira might actually need her bodyguard.

* * *

It’s clear from the moment they’re brought to their new accommodations that the Marshal also seems to believe Amira needs more protection here. Four additional Stormtroopers, selected by the city’s Governor himself - an old friend of the Marshal’s - are tasked with guarding Gideon and his niece.

Space is limited in the city’s high-rises, and there’s no thought to any of them staying below the dust cloud level, despite the current clarity of the skies. They are put up in a two bedroom apartment, with a small office that Gideon claims for himself. There is some vague mention of him sharing quarters on the lower levels with the Stormtroopers if he needs to sleep. The “if” is issued by the Governor’s assistant with distaste - as if the Empire has already forgotten that the Mandalorians are still living beings beneath their armor - as if they had forgotten ending so many of those lives. But though he will need sleep, he has no intentions of sharing quarters with the troopers, or of leaving Amira’s side. He can sleep standing if necessary, even if it feeds into the myth that he’s less than human beneath his beskar.

Apparently some part of these thoughts seem to reach Amira, or perhaps she can just guess at what he’s thinking, because her small hand slips into his gloved one for the briefest moment as she passes him on the way to her room. The gesture is so slight as to appear accidental to anyone looking - not that anyone is - but he can almost feel her gratitude and reassurance radiating from just that small touch. 

The door slides shut behind her, effectively cutting off her reassuring presence. But he thinks he can almost hear the shakiness of her breathing as she finds herself alone for the first time since the previous morning. The Mandalorian thinks that for all his helmet might make others forget he is just human underneath, Amira is forced to wear her own face as a mask each day to keep people from realizing that she is more. 

* * *

It’s not until the next morning, after a long night of half sleeping propped against Amira’s doorway, that the Mandalorian finally discovers why they are in Fyederar of all places. The city is apparently playing host to a medal ceremony for the ‘heroes’ of the Empire - among them a man named Skonn, a former Rebel turned traitor for the Empire. The Marshal made clear his plans to approach Commander Skonn at the afterparty about infiltrating the Resistance on Neridiaam.

Amira once again manages to maintain the placid expression she always wears around her uncle, but the Mandalorian can sense her fear that the Marshal’s plan is a good one. If Skonn agrees, and returns to Neridiaam before she can warn her friends…

Even if the Neridiaans generally know better than to trust outsiders, which the Mandalorian somehow doubts they are, Amira had been able to gain their trust with nothing more than a few security leaks. It wouldn’t be hard for a veteran Resistance traitor to infiltrate the local ranks. And even if Marva and Jessamyn are unlikely to give him Amira’s name, there’s no telling the damage he could do. 

But there’s no chance to talk to Amira about any of this. Even though Gideon eventually leaves the apartment to go speak to the Governor, two of the Stormtroopers are left behind to watch Amira. The Mandalorian wonders if the Mashal is more suspicious of either Amira or himself than he lets on - though if he is, he might have realized that two Stormtroopers stood very little chance against either of them. 

And if there is any suspicion on them, there certainly won’t be anything to report back. After being denied her request to explore the city, Amira had resigned to playing the part of the docile Imperial pet. Apparently the spoiled brat act was only for him, because with no hope of convincing the troopers to abandon their posts she settles into an alarming sort of blank pleasantness. She carries on some brief small talk with the guards, occasionally directing a remark towards him but never asking any questions, before lapsing into silence. 

He realizes that being here is likely even worse for her than it is for him. There is danger for both of them, but the unfamiliar surroundings are a greater punishment for her. Despite their luxe accommodations, and the beautiful view of the city - the thin cloud of dust has turned the sky a deep pink and sets the glass of surrounding towers sparkling in the early light - there’s little here for someone without sight. There’s no plant life growing within the entire city, and certainly not in this apartment. No noise manages to trickle in through the large windows, and the whole place smells rather sterile. He notices she’s sat herself next to a single textured pillow, which her arm rests against though she refrains from doing any more than this to explore the room. He hopes she’s meditating or something otherwise she must be incredibly bored.

He’s not quite meditating himself - to do so would be to risk allowing his memories to catch him unaware - but he is quietly going through all possible escape routes in case this all goes to hell in a hurry. It’s less of a reassuring exercise than usual, as it seems for once they’re fairly well backed into a corner. 

He could get them out of the building, sure. The two Stormtroopers lounging around the apartment aren’t anything even resembling a challenge. There were some others along the way out, but none of them would likely even think to stop them. Even if they did, he’d faced worse odds before, and he considers that this time he might actually have help - Amira might have trouble controlling her powers but they seemed to work just fine in a tight spot. They could probably make it to the shipyard easily enough - he made sure to memorize the route. He’s without a ship of his own, but hotwiring some smaller ship from the Empire’s fleet would practically be child’s play. 

The real trouble is getting far enough away on an Imperial vessel. He’d be too easy to track, both by the Empire and by the Guild. Even if he made it to the Outer Rim, the Guild would still find him. Find both of them. The best he could hope for Amira was that they’d return her to her uncle. For all her powers she wouldn’t be any kind of match for an entire Guild of trained assassins, and if even one of them caught wind of what she was capable of…

It doesn’t bear thinking about.

And so he tries to think about anything else. Though thinking about her abilities gives him an idea. She had told him before that he had tried not to listen to thoughts, but it was hard to avoid when people thought about her, or they thought ‘loudly’. He isn’t sure exactly how to increase the volume of a person’s thoughts - generally he feels as though they are all the same. But he looks towards her and tries to imagine himself shouting her name.

Amira startles - a small movement, probably unnoticeable to anyone else in the room. It’s more of a twitch of her shoulder really, but he knows she isn’t one for fidgeting.

_“Can you hear me?”_ He imagines shouting.

She doesn’t look up at him, but he can see the subtlest nod of her head after a long moment. He can also see the slight grimace that appears, and wonders if he’s possibly actually shouting into her mind.

_“Better?”_ He offers at a normal volume.

Another subtle nod and a relieved smile.

He’s not sure what else to do with this, so he starts sending her floor plans, escape routes, tries to visualize all of his plans so they reach her. But all he’s met with is blankness. He remembers she can’t understand images, and tries to lay out his plan in words, wanting them to be on the same page just in case this all goes wrong. He can see a furrow forming between her brows, but he’s not sure how to interpret that.

_“Understand?”_

To any other observer it would appear she is just adjusting her position, but he can see the subtle shake of her head. He tries to go back over his words, make sure he describes everything in ways she’ll be able to understand without knowing their surroundings, but he can’t tell what he’s missing.

_“Too much?”_

She offers an apologetic smile in his direction. Apparently it’s not just like talking then. He had thought, since she could pick out codes and locations even when they weren’t directed towards her...but then again, she had to steal the physical security plans to deliver them to the resistance. And he remembers she had told them it was easier to send feelings than words or images. So he tries a different tactic, projecting a wave of whatever reassurance he can muster up in her direction.

At this her smile brightens. He can’t tell if the pleasure he feels at this is his alone or something she’s sending back towards him.

_“Was that you? Can you answer in here?”_ Even if their communications are brief, it would be safer than her having to respond physically.

She doesn’t answer right away, and he thinks he can see her thinking. But then her eyes shut in concentration and he prepares himself to listen.

But there is only silence, and then a searing electric pain radiating from just behind his temples. His vision blanks, and his thoughts narrow only to the pain. Without quite meaning to, he can feel his hands going to his helmet, pressing at the sides like he can block out the white hot shocks that are coming from within. 

Somehow it seems to work though, as the pain abruptly stops, leaving behind only a faint sort of throbbing and more than a little nausea. But he can think again, and hear and see. When he dares to glance up, he finds the two Stormtroopers looking at him strangely, and Amira looking worried.

“Some kind of feedback in here,” the Mandalorian offers up to try and explain his odd behavior. “Any bugs?”

At this the Stormtroopers offer up what amounts to a shrug buried under the piles of white plastoid armor, going back to looking entirely disinterested in this assignment. “Not exactly anything to hear in here.” 

He had already swept the apartment earlier for listening devices, but he goes through the motions again just to keep up the story. Amira still looks troubled, but he tries to send out a wave of _I’m fine_ as clearly as possible. He can see a little of the tension leave her, but she refuses any attempts to continue this line of communication for the rest of the morning.

* * *

One of the Stormtroopers startles awake at the sound of the door buzzer, having apparently fallen asleep out of boredom. The other guard delivers a loud smack to the back of his partner’s helmet as he moves toward the door, and the Mandalorian catches Amira trying to stifle her smile at the obvious sound and the disgruntled “hey!” that followed.

A white box is brought into the room, addressed to Amira. It seems it was sent up by the Marshal, but still the box is checked first by the troopers and then by the Mandalorian. He is the one to finally open it, peeling back layers of thin paper to reveal...a dress.

“What did my uncle send?” Amira inquires, all politeness and formality.

“A dress,” all three men answer quickly, bringing an amused smile to the woman’s face.

“A dress?” She prompts for more information.

“A white dress,” one of the Stormtroopers supplies, unhelpfully. 

His partner elbows him in the side - apparently even he can recognize the uselessness of the descriptor. “A formal dress. For the ceremony this afternoon.”

The Mandalorian thinks to himself that Amira is already wearing a formal dress. Outside of her apartment, she is always dressed nicely. Today her dress is deep blue silk, long and flowing with delicate silver embroidery along the mantle at her shoulders. But it seems she requires an even fancier dress for the occasion. He has never quite managed to wrap his head around the extravagances of the Core Worlds.

The Stormtrooper manages to hand over the dress box to Amira with enough awkwardness that the Mandalorian recognizes that she is probably doing this on purpose, likely to make them intentionally uncomfortable. He is certain of this when she finally speaks. 

“Thank you - would mind waiting outside the apartment while I get dressed?”

Apparently their discomfort is enough to make them ignore the fact she has her own room - albeit without a locking door - though not enough to make them miss the fact that he’s not being sent out with them.

“What about Mando here?” The Stormtrooper stupidly points back at the Mandalorian and doesn’t even bother to correct himself.

“It’s against their code to look at a foreign woman undressed.” Amira answers easily, and he is once again taken aback at how quickly and effortlessly she can lie.

“Are you serious?” The trooper barks out something like a laugh.

“Mandalorians are always serious,” she answers back. She somehow manages to keep a straight face through all of this, but the Mandalorian can almost feel the amusement radiating from her at the words.

Apparently he succeeds at conveying a rather serious look himself, because with another clanking shrug the Stormtroopers actually step outside the doorway. The door slides shut behind them, leaving them alone for the first time since they arrived.

“Against our code?” is for some reason the first thing he asks her, still marveling at the fact that it worked. And trying not to think too hard about all the ways in which he’s violated this supposed code with the very woman in front of him - and all the ways in which he hasn’t yet had the chance to. 

But she’s smiling brightly at him, “it was either that or tell them you needed to help me with my hair and cosmetics.”

He smiles beneath his helmet along with her, thinking there’s no way the troopers would have bought that. Except…

“You don’t really need...do you?” He realizes that her fingers are still on the mend, but while he can manage a serviceable braid to keep her hair back, there’s no way he can help with this.

“Don’t worry, I should be able to manage alright on my own. At least enough that I won’t shame the Marshal. I might need your help finding a few things though.”

She sets him to work locating various hairpins and ties from her bags while she changes out of her day dress into her robe, laying the formal dress across the bed for later. The Mandalorian tries to ignore the obvious and very visible fact that she is wearing nothing else beneath the semi-translucent fabric of her dressing gown, and lets out a small grunt of a laugh at the realization that he’s apparently giving something of a truth to her lie. 

“Are you alright, Mandalorian?”

His mind rushes to find an explanation for his laughter that doesn’t come across crass, but as she continues he realizes that’s not what she’s asking about.

“I am so sorry about earlier. I worried that might happen, if I tried to enter your mind. But I thought it might be different, with you.”

He finally catches up with what she is saying, realizing she is talking about earlier, what had caused the spike of pain in his mind. He remembers now that she had told him before that reaching into another’s mind could hurt them. Apparently this even extends to trying to speak to him there - communication seems to be a one way street with her abilities. But despite his disappointment, he doesn’t miss the fact that she had hoped things would be different when it was him. That she maybe saw him as something special. Even if he wasn’t - and this certainly proved it. 

He doesn’t know how much of his current train of thoughts she’s privy to, but as usual she seems ready with the right response. “It was nice though, having you in my thoughts, letting me hear them. And when you were reaching out with calm feelings...that was intentional, wasn’t it?”

“I thought it might help.” He tries to shrug off her praise.

“It did, thank you.” 

And then she’s pressing herself against him in some form of a hug, except that she doesn’t know quite where he’s standing well enough to get her arms around him. So he simply allows her to fall against his chest and carefully brings up his own arms around her, doing his best not to press his scarred armor into her soft skin.

She remains pressed against him for long enough that he starts to worry what would happen if anyone came to check on them. Amira finally pulls back just as this worry nearly overwhelms how good it feels to have her soft and warm in his arms again.

“I suppose I should actually get ready for the ceremony.”

She takes her seat at the small desk in the room, rather than by the mirrored table in the fresher, where she has already set out several boxes - some he recognizes and some he doesn’t. The largest is certainly her jewelry box, while a small one seems to hold nothing but an endless supply of hair pins.

He tries to keep his gaze from wandering too much as she unpins the two small braids she has at her crown, loosening them into something softer as she guides them into a larger braid at the back. It takes her much longer with her injured hand than he suspects it usually would, and occasionally he is asked to hold a section of hair in place, but eventually she manages to bring it back into an elaborately spiraled chignon. 

From her jewelry box she pulls out an intricate golden circlet he’s never seen her wear before - he’s not entirely sure what it is but she asks him if it matches the dress. He has no idea but there’s a few lines of gold on the fabric of the gown so he offers something like a yes, which is enough for her to start threading some of her braids through the circlet. In the end it settles across her hair, golden bands running around her braids and drops of golden beads dropping down across her forehead and trailing from her high chignon. She sets aside several other circles of gold, far more familiar necklaces and bracelets, to put on later. These seem to match the banding of the headpiece, and are obviously part of a set. It occurs to him that it must be easier for her to just find a set, rather than to try and match each piece without being able to see it. Still he marvels at the elaborate work of her hands, and the way she manages to make her heavy jewelry look light as air as it crowns her. Perhaps like the weight of his own armor, it simply becomes a part of her. 

She opens another box he’s certain he’s never seen before, and within it he catches a glimpse of shimmery pink and red pigments. “There now. Which of these goes best with the gown?”

The Mandalorian honestly has about as much idea about color matching as Amira does, but he goes over to the bed to look at the dress. It’s mostly white silk, but there are two sashes that wrap elaborately around the waist - one a deep grey and the smaller one a bright red, both with golden threads running along the bits that drape down the front. He goes back to her box and pulls out one of the reds that looks close enough. There’s nothing in there that’s white or grey or gold so he figures it’ll work as well as anything else would.

He watches as she takes the red from him and brings it up her face. He finally recognizes that the red stick is some sort of cosmetic. He catches himself before asking how exactly she plans to apply it (at least she hasn’t asked him to help with this aspect), but he does ask her why.

“It’s expected for these sorts of things. Just let me know if I mess anything up too noticeably.”

And with that he watches as she counts exactly three swipes of the shimmery stick across each of her eyelids. With her fingertips she blends the red out softly towards her temples, the dark color framing her eyes and making the paleness of them even more striking.

“Are they even?”

He looks carefully, trying to judge, “the left goes out a little further.”

With a few more swipes they match impressively well. The process is repeated with two swipes to her cheeks and blending the pigment out, this time without the need to even things up. He finds himself completely fascinated by the whole thing by the time she is tracing the fullness of her lips, deepening their color and adding a slight sheen that makes her lips look as though...

From the way she’s now smiling he can tell she knows exactly where his mind is. But he refuses to go any further down the path of imagining what it might be like to kiss her beyond the _kov’nyn_ they’ve shared. So instead he wonders how she manages to do this without someone there to tell her when she messes up. This, she definitely seems to catch.

“Sometimes I use the thoughts around me as my mirror.”

“I thought you couldn’t see anything in people’s thoughts?”

“I can’t, but I can tell if someone is thinking I’ve smudged my lip paint,” she grins.

He realizes his gaze is currently centered right above her top lip, where the red has bled a little outside the slight bow of her lip. Most people probably wouldn’t even be able to tell, but he realizes he’s standing fairly close.

Though instead of remarking on this tiny mistake, he simply lifts her chin with a gentle hand, carefully swiping the thumb of his other hand down along the soft cleft above her lip, catching the excess pigment with his glove. 

He pulls the hand back to marvel at the small streak of red, almost missing when Amira catches the hand below her chin with her own before tilting her head to place a small kiss of thanks to the palm of his glove. Only the faintest hint of her lip color lingers on the duraweave, and he finds himself simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

When her face tilts back up it is obvious now that she is searching for his thoughts - whether about the kiss or any other possible smudges he is not certain. So he just sends back a single word, finding it much easier to speak within his mind than out loud - beautiful.

She smiles as she stands from her makeshift vanity table, before walking past him towards the bed, where her dress still lays spread across the sheets.

And then without a single warning she lets her robe fall away from her shoulders, sliding down to a pool at her feet. The Mandalorian turns his face away immediately, but not before he catches a glimpse of smooth skin and soft curves without a single scrap of fabric to disrupt the view. 

That brief image alone is going to make watching her from afar all evening more than a little unbearable, but if he keeps his gaze on her any longer he knows he’ll start considering starting something in this room that he absolutely cannot. Not in this off-world apartment she shares with the Marshal, and certainly not with two Stormtroopers standing just outside the door waiting on them. This alone is all that manages to keep him from looking back at her, from reaching out to trace the small cluster of freckles he couldn’t help notice along the soft curve of her waist.

“Will you zip me up?” Apparently this whole time he has been staring holes into the walls of her room, she’s managed to slide the dress on, though it still gapes open along the back - and he is being asked to remedy this fact.

Taking in a long breath to steady himself, he steps over to where she’s standing, trying to focus on searching for the tab of this zipper and not the long line of her spine that’s still bared to him. There’s a soft line of blue lace, in a pattern like butterfly wings, peeking out from the very bottom V of the fastening, and as much as he is relieved to know she is wearing something beneath the dress, he regrets that he’ll be able to picture it perfectly now. 

He finally manages to catch hold of the tiny zipper pull after a great deal of distraction, and after spending several moments trying to figure out where best to rest his other hand to keep the zipper straight. He settles on placing his free hand on her lower back, just beside the edge of the zipper, and then rather impolitely placing his boot on the small trail of the dress to keep it from riding up. But it’s either this or grabbing at her backside to hold the whole thing steady, and this seems less likely to get him in trouble - with himself at least. He’s managed to guess by now that Amira doesn’t seem to mind his manhandling too much, even encourages it at times. But this is neither the time nor place, and eventually someone is going to wonder why this is taking so long. So with the dress stabilized as well as he can, carefully tugs the zip upwards until he’s brushing against her shoulder blades. 

He manages to remove his foot from her dress just in time because she’s turning now to face him, and she looks...stunning. For all that he’s used to seeing her in beautiful dresses, he’s never seen her in one quite like this. Her shoulders and neck are completely bared with a sheer fabric draping across her upper arms and trailing along to the back. The bodice curves and dips along the contours of her chest, and the shimmering white silk wraps tightly around her waist and hips. The streak of colors from the sashes only draws attention to just how fitted the gown is. His eyes catch on the faint freckles along her shoulders, newly bared, and the red of her lips only draws attention to their fullness. The grey sash of her dress brings out the pale blues in her eyes. She’s absolutely breathtaking.

The Mandalorian finds himself plunged back into thoughts of stealing her away from all of this, and tries to remind himself that she’s in no immediate danger here. Even if he can’t imagine others not looking at her and having the exact same thoughts of taking her away. But Amira is so much stronger than they all realize, and she would never let herself be taken by any of them.

It’s this reassuring thought that finally allows him to step away from her back into the living area, to pretend this is where he’s been stationed the whole time she was dressing. He closes the bedroom behind him to further sell the scene. Neither of them is looking forward to allowing the Stormtroopers back in, but it would be better for them to be back inside by the time the Marshal arrives. They stare a little at Amira when she finally exits the bedroom, but thankfully make no comment. He tries not to stare too much himself.

* * *

It is beyond unbearable to have to stay just outside the evening’s events, watching as Amira is swallowed into a sea of Imperial guests. 

She’s never actually out of his sight, which is more for her own safety than any particular thought to him. But she is forced to stay on the Marshal’s arm in unfamiliar surroundings, being introduced to every Imp of rank at the party. 

The ceremony had been horrible enough, watching the Empire awarding medals to a man for betraying his people and his very ideals. But watching as Amira employs all of her not inconsiderable diplomacy skills speaking with each new villain as they are introduced to her weighs heavy in his chest. He might have to occasionally tolerate being in the presence of the Imps to bring back credits to his clan, but he never has to pretend to like them. At least she is spared from having to dance with any of the many men that would have otherwise asked her to join them. He knows she is perfectly well able to, but the men here seem to accept that her sightlessness somehow prevents her. He knows how much she hates being perceived as unable, but he supposes here it is the lesser of two evils.

The Marshal finally gets his desired meeting with Skonn, dragging Amira along with him. Even from his vantage point he can read the tension in his shoulders, the falseness of her smile. Though looking around at all the forced joviality no one is bound to notice that hers is not real either. The Mandalorian is too far away to catch any of their conversation, but Gideon seems pleased with how it’s going - and this obviously isn’t faked. Suddenly he is waved over from where he is stationed at the edge of the banquet hall with all the other guards.

“I hadn’t quite believed it when the Marshal told me he brought on a Mandalorian to help with his base’s little problem,” Skonn exclaims smugly. “Though I suppose I’m living proof that bringing in a former enemy can only be to the Empire’s advantage. And I imagine it’s nice for you being on the winning side for once.”

The Mandalorian is thankful that years of careful training keep him from immediately reacting to the words. This is more to Skonn’s benefit, as in another setting the Mandalorian would have killed him where he stood. But it’s far worse for Amira, who has no mask to hide behind, and must continue to smile at her uncle and this chuff-sucking leech. He glimpses the strain around her lips and brows, and can already tell she’s well past where any other person would have long ago broken.

“Uncle, I’m sure you and the Commander have much to discuss. I thought I might take some air, as this night has had far more excitement than I’m used to.” 

To anyone else she would seem the perfect Imperial daughter - perhaps truly overwhelmed with the excitement of the festivities or maybe just diplomatically giving the officers a chance to speak more privately. Either way, the Marshal seems pleased enough with her performance as he hands her over to the Mandalorian.

“Be careful not to take in too much of the air, the dust count is still high even at this altitude.”

Skonn is less quick to release her, catching her hand to place a kiss across her knuckles. “I hope you enjoyed your evening, it’s been a pleasure.”

The Mandalorian just barely manages not to tug her away, waiting for her to politely take back her hand and offer up a few final pleasantries before she allows him to guide her up onto the terrace. 

It seems the Marshal wasn’t entirely wrong about the level of dust out here, as no one else seems to be outside. The energy field that filters the air coming into the hall doesn’t appear to extend out very far, and there’s not much to see with the gray clouds swallowing up the city below them. But they’re not out here to take in the sights. 

At least here they’re away from the swarm of Imps below, and the moment the music and the chatter fades into the background he watches as Amira’s smile drops. Her face seems to go through a strange series of tiny contortions before her fingertips reach up to gently massage the muscles of her cheeks and jaw. He never considered that her face must actually hurt from forcing a smile for so long - an injury he’s never been subjected to himself.

“How do you do it?”

“It requires several muscle groups actually, but keeping the zygomaticus in good working order is absolutely critical,” she explains.

It takes him a moment she realizes she’s talking about how to smile.

“I mean how do you...”

“I knew what you meant,” he realizes she is teasing, and how reliant he’s become on seeing her smile. She allows the briefest smile directed his way before grimacing a little at the lingering soreness. “How do I stand smiling at all these monsters while they pat themselves on the back for exploiting and betraying the galaxy?”

She pauses for a moment, but he has nothing to add to or contradict her description of the evening.

“Patience. Knowing that their time will come soon enough. They’ve already planted the seeds of their own destruction. It’s just a matter of nurturing the right ones until their moment comes.”

He takes a moment to consider this, how little it’s taken for her plant distrust among the ranks at the compound, with each and every Imperial caring only about themselves and being on the “winning side”. How Amira has further taken advantage of the overextended bloat of the Empire, the endless bureaucracy, to help the Rebels raid their supplies and free their prisoners. With the compound’s security plans now leaked to the Resistance, he can’t imagine the base will last much longer.

“How do you do it?” She asks him in return.

A number of different responses come to mind, including a line about how he finds far less occasion for smiling than she does - though lately that’s been less true. But she’s trusted him with every truth about herself, and he knows he can trust her with this.

“There are people counting on me out there.”

It’s not much, but he knows she understands. He guesses she may have even figured it out long before now. They may be fighting for different things, but she still understands him.

“So I guess there won’t be any convincing you to help me steal a ship and fly away before Skonn decides to come home with us?” She half-heartedly jokes.

“I won’t let him find you,” he answers seriously. He realizes they’re speaking far too boldly considering the party continues just below them, but it’s too important not to say to her.

“He certainly wouldn’t find me if we were outside Imperial space.” Her smile is still a little stiff.

“Maybe not, but the Guild would. If I were to help a target escape, we’d both be hunted down.” He doesn’t mention how many times he’s considered doing just this - but a life being hunted down by both the Guild and the Empire is no life at all.

“I thought you were their best?” 

“That doesn’t mean much when you’ve got hundreds of the next best out for your heads. The Guild can’t just let that sort of thing go unpunished.”

Amira frowns, “what happens if you just fail at your mission?”

“Then you don’t get paid, and they send in someone else to finish the job.”

“But they wouldn’t come after you?”

“Not unless Guild law is broken. The work will dry up pretty quick though.”

She seems relieved to hear this, though he can’t exactly imagine any scenario in which he fails to protect her and manages to survive himself to face the Guild’s ire. He decides not to mention this to her, pleased to see a little of her earlier stiffness seem to fade away at his reassurances.

“Well, I suppose if we’re stuck here, you should at least ask me to dance.”

Not for the first time, he wishes he knew just what was going through her mind at times like these. He’s not sure how her thoughts went from Guild law to dancing, but here they are.

And apparently she isn’t exactly waiting for him to ask her, already reaching out to tug his gloved hands towards her. She takes his left hand in her own, drawing the other around her waist to place at the center of her back. He can feel where his thumb presses against the bare skin beneath her shoulder blade, just above the top of her gown. Her free hand slides up along his arm, skipping past his pauldron to clutch at the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the fabric of his cape. The movement manages to draw them even closely together, and his breath catches at her nearness after spending so much of the day at opposite ends of the room. Faint music is still drifting up from the party downstairs, but he has no idea what to do other than stare at the woman in front of him.

Once again this doesn’t seem to deter her, as she steps one foot back, pulling him towards her until he’s forced to step forward into the space she’s left. Her next step takes them to the side, half turning, and again he follows, bringing their feet together. She then steps forward, repeating the pattern in reverse. 

“Please tell me if I start leading us towards the edge,” she teases, though she knows he’d never let her fall. 

She pulls him along into some sort of strange shape along the terrace floor, but it’s really just the same six steps and eventually he’s able to take the lead, surprised at how easily she follows. Amira simply takes the opportunity to drift more closely to him, til he starts to worry that he’ll end up stepping on her feet. But he just takes smaller and smaller steps.

By the time her head falls to his chest, they’re mostly just swaying to the slow rhythm of the music, and he stops worrying that he can no longer see his feet. Occasionally he can feel the toe of her shoes brushing the toes of his boots, but he’s far more aware of the curve of her waist beneath his arm, the small hand tucked into his, the way her other hand occasionally slips beneath the back of his helmet, even though Amira is careful not to reach towards the bare skin of neck - as much as he might like to feel her bare skin against his own. Every nerve in his body is already hyper aware of each and every point of contact.

He struggles to picture what they must look like up here. Amira in her elegant gown, with her soft skin and her glittering jewelry, and him in his battleworn armor which has certainly seen better days. Strange enough to witness a Mandalorian dancing, and let alone with the vision resting in his arms. Even the gray dust that permeates the air up here isn’t enough to obscure how beautiful she looks.

But eventually the song ends, and a small cough from Amira signals they’ve spent far too long out here already. Reluctantly, he pulls back from her embrace, and she allows him to. They’ve both realized their stolen moment has reached its end, and they need to head back inside before they’re missed.

“Thank you for the dance,” she smiles - a real one, unforced and unstrained. 

He finds himself smiling right back.

* * *

Their small moment of peace is short-lived, as upon their return it is announced that Commander Skonn will be returning the Neridiaam with them that very night to begin rooting out the resistance on their world. Amira isn’t even given enough time to change out of her ceremony gown before they’re hurried off to the ship. 

The Mandalorian considers that for all the Marshal professes an interest in Amira’s safety, he’s quick to bring her back to a dangerous situation instead of leaving her in the relative safety of Fyederar. He’s once again left to wonder if Gideon is starting to suspect Amira, or perhaps it’s the Empire itself he’s suspicious of. Certainly it seems as though he’s neglected to make his superiors aware of Amira’s capabilities. And for all the Mandalorian’s reputation, bringing in an outsider is a strange choice for an Imperial guardian, unless you’re looking to hide something. Perhaps that also explains the rush with Skonn - the Rebels aren’t the only ones on Neridiaam with secrets.

And he’s not the only one curious about the mission timeline.

“Is Commander Skonn traveling with us? I would think that might raise suspicion among the locals,” it is rare to hear Amira questioning her uncle, but she hastens to add with a gentle smile, “not that we mind having a hero of the Empire joining our convoy.”

“There is no need to worry yourself about the locals, my dear,” Skonn dismisses haughtily. “On a backwater planet like Neridiaam there’s barely any need to infiltrate the ranks. I’m certain with a few interviews I’ll be able to trace the source of the rebellion. The Resistance isn’t a sophisticated operation, and none of the Rebels are particularly bright. It should be easy enough to stamp out when you know where to look.”

Even the Marshal looks offended by Skonn’s conceit, his frown deepening, but Amira manages to hold onto her false smile offering a few words of praise and thanks for the Commander’s help. The Mandalorian can see that behind her expression she’s trying to work out a way to warn the Resistance before Skonn can reach them, without drawing too much attention to herself. He may not have her mind-reading powers, but he thinks he knows her well enough by now. He may need to figure out how to protect her from herself this time.

Amira feigns a need for rest on the entire return journey to avoid having to play audience to more of Skonn’s war stories. The Mandalorian had hoped to find the man nothing but false bravado, but underneath the obvious exaggerations, the man is clearly a shrewd intel officer. His familiarity with the Resistance makes him a real threat, and the Mandalorian considers that even if they are able to warn the Rebels, there’s no way he’ll leave empty handed. Amira will want to protect everyone, but that may not be possible at this point. He’ll have to find something, and the Mandalorian will need to make sure it’s not Amira he finds. 

He tells her this last part when they are finally returned to her apartment on Neridiaam.

“Don’t worry, Mandalorian. I promise you there will be nothing for Skonn to find,” and with that she stands on her toes to press her forehead to his, tilting ever so slightly to deliver a kiss to his helmet right below his mouth, before heading to her bedroom on her own.

* * *

The next morning, he finds her room empty.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took a million years, our work caught up with us. I promise I've never abandoned a fic and I'm gearing up to get this bad boy finished! I will not keep leaving you on these cliffhangers forever!
> 
> P.S. For those of you who read the comments on my last Amira fic, yes this whole story was originally built around the idea of making Mando dance at a formal ball lol. Obviously it got much bigger than I had planned, but we're going to make it!


	14. Escape

There’s no sign of a struggle, or of the room being ransacked. In fact, nothing is noticeably absent from the room, other than its owner. But on further inspection he discovers that her jewelry box is missing, as are the clothes she had worn the night she had snuck them out of the compound. 

The Mandalorian knows without a doubt that she has left this time for good, without any intention of coming back for anything else here. Or coming back for him.

He barely has a moment to consider that she’s left him behind once again before the outer door is abruptly sliding open, and through the open bedroom door he watches as the Marshal and his men fill the entryway. He’s spotted nearly as quickly.

“Where is she, Mandalorian?” Gideon barks out.

“She isn’t here.” There’s no point in lying with the small legion of Stormtroopers ready and waiting to storm the small bedroom.

“Yes, that much is obvious,” Commander Skonn sneers from the Marshal’s side. “I thought you were paid to keep track of her.”

“I’m not her warden, I was hired to keep her alive.” The Mandalorian answers measuredly, well aware that all the weapons in the room are directed his way.

“And you just happened to never notice the fact that she was working for the rebels this whole time? How are we to know you didn’t orchestrate this little escape attempt?”

“Would I still be in here if I had?” It’s not exactly an ideal situation, but he spares a moment to be thankful that at least Amira left him here to look incompetent, rather than like he was actively working against his employer and the Empire. It’s obvious that with Skonn’s help the Marshal has finally put two and two together about Amira’s allegiances, and it wouldn’t take much of a leap to imagine a Mandalorian might not take the Imperial side either. Still, the longer they question him, the more time she has to get as far away as possible. Even though she has abandoned him here, he can’t stop himself wanting to keep her safe as long as he can. 

“Are we expected to believe that in all these weeks of watching her you noticed nothing?” Gideon fumes.

“I was watching for external threats, not monitoring her.”

The Commander scoffs, “I’m so sure.”

“Then you’ll have no problem bringing her back to us,” the Marshal determines.

The Mandalorian supposes he should have expected this. He knows there’s no way for him to refuse without implicating himself, so he keeps his response neutral. “20,000 credits for the traitor, as agreed on.” 

What’s one more failure to add to his reputation at this point?

“Dead or alive.” The Marshal adds, coldly. “Whatever happens, we can’t allow her to fall into rebel hands.”

The Mandalorian’s shock at Gideon’s response is masked by his armor, but it’s not without considerable effort that he manages to signal his agreement to the terms. 

Even though he never had any intention of bringing Amira back to this man, now more than ever he still has to find her, if only to warn her. If the Marshal is taking out a contract on her life, is openly admitting her importance to the Empire, there’s no telling who else he’ll send after her. He’ll just have to be the one to find her first.

The Marshal interrupts his planning, “and Commander Skonn will go with you, to ensure you don’t lose her again.”

Skonn grins. “It will be my pleasure.”

* * *

The Mandalorian’s former hopes that Skonn is nothing more than a very lucky fool are officially put to rest the moment he starts tracking Amira. The Mandalorian is forced to admit to Skonn and the Marshal that he noticed her jewelry box was missing, but he can more easily feign ignorance on the subject of what clothing she would have taken with her (despite his intimate familiarity with the particular items he’s sure she’s wearing). But Skonn easily surmises she’d be dressing in cheap local garments to blend in, likely given to her by another woman working within the Resistance. 

“Did she have any female friends she met with often?”

“She didn’t have friends,” he answers more or less truthfully. No one could argue the fact that Amira mostly kept to herself, and never saw anyone socially.

“Any women she talked to regularly?”

“Her crwth teacher was an old man. Single - no wife or daughters. The other student was a young boy, didn’t talk much.” He considers leading Skonn towards Tripp as a distraction, but as much as he doesn’t care for the kid, he doesn’t want to see him thrown into an Imperial interrogation. He’d probably have a heart attack before they asked a single question.

“You never saw her speak with anyone else?” He asks condescendingly.

“A few of the Stormtroopers. Couldn’t exactly pick them out of a lineup.” 

“It’s almost as if you don’t want to find her,” Skonn replies like there’s really no question that he doesn’t.

“Maybe I’m not looking to split the bounty with a has-been.”

Skonn’s expression sours, but unfortunately the distraction of his anger is only momentary. Apparently his ego is a little less vulnerable than predicted.

“The bounty is all yours, I’ll take the promotion instead. I assume you won’t be wanting that?”

He tilts his head to signal the stupidity of the question. An Imperial honorific would be the only thing worse than coming back with two failed missions under his belt.

“That is if you actually have something to contribute.” Skonn raises a single eyebrow in the Mandalorian’s direction, demanding some sign of helping.

“She’s blind -” he starts.

“Yes, I was quite aware of that fact.”

“- and she can’t get far without guidance. Her contacts would either need to be in here or very close to the compound.” 

“Well I suppose it’s not nothing. Do you know where she can get to on her own?”

“Yes.”

Once again he’s amazed at how much Amira revealed to him, even when she was lying to him about so many things. He knows now she had always planned on getting away, and recognizes she had probably been counting on the fact that everyone would underestimate how far she could get on her own. The fact that she pretended with everyone but him - it’s not nothing.

* * *

They start asking around before they even hit the marketplace, the Mandolorian implying this area was as far as she could usually manage unchaperoned. Unsurprisingly, no one around here says much to the Commander, or even to him.

But Skonn catches the scent of the marketplace nearby, and manages to guess that she could have probably gotten as far as the baker’s by smell alone.

“She couldn’t navigate the stalls.” The Mandalorian argues. Amira would have scolded him for even implying it had she been here, and he tries not to flinch at the bitter ache the thought leaves him. As it is she would probably be thankful for the misguidance. 

“She wouldn’t need to, anyone here could have helped her.” And it’s true, the marketplace is bustling even in the early hours of the morning, and Meridiaan is unfortunately the kind of quiet planet where a woman could safely ask for help from a stranger, at least by the light of day. Not that Amira really needed it.

“In fact according to the location you gave me for her music lessons, she would have passed by the market regularly. She could have easily made contact here.”

The Mandalorian never thought he’d miss spending time with the Stormtroopers, but he would have really preferred their complete lack of insight right about now. Still there were hundreds of people here, if they rounded them all up for questioning it would buy Amira a little more time. The Mandalorian carefully searches for Marva and Jessamyn while keeping his mask aimed forward, relieved not to see either of them at their regular stalls. That probably means Amira had already reached them, possibly even that she was with them now. Either way they weren’t around to be interrogated.

But Skonn seems to be ignoring all of the people, looking instead at all the doorways. They walk up and down several back streets and alleys until he finally stops at a completely unremarkable door tucked into a near deserted alleyway.

“This place really is a backwater. Those symbols haven’t been used in over twelve years yet here they are right where you’d expect them.” 

The Mandalorian had no idea what he was referring to, but experience had taught him that men like Skonn will answer a silence just as easily as a question. 

“Feel here, the little crescent indented on the right of the archway - it’s the symbol for a rebel safehouse.”

Shit. He hadn’t seen it before, but it was obvious now, even without feeling for it. Easy to miss, but simple enough to find if you knew what you were looking for. Even a blind woman could find it by touch alone. 

Right now his only hope was that Amira wasn’t in this particular safehouse, as Skonn already had his blaster pointed at the door’s locking mechanism. The door slid open after no more than a few bolts. No one could be seen in the darkened entryway, and it was impossible to tell if anyone was in the interior with all the noise from the streets outside. 

“You coming in?” Skonn looked back to tilt his head towards the inside of the safehouse.

“After you,” he motioned, pointing his own blaster at Skonn the moment his back was turned. If Amira was here, he wouldn’t give the other man the chance to spot her.  
  
He needn’t have bothered. Ahead of him, Skonn barely manages more than two steps inside before an explosion rips through the entryway, throwing him back into the street. The Mandalorian was knocked onto his own ass by the force of the blast, but Skonn clearly bore the brunt of it, laid out in the alley with his blast fragments still burning around him.

Not bothering to check on the state of the other man, the Mandalorian clambers up to standing to look for the source of the explosion, searching for any sign of an ambush. But nothing else follows. At the back of the entryway he spots the remains of a very old trip mine. As the smoke clears, he notices that not all of the dust and damage was from the fire blast. Clearly this place hadn’t been used in a long while, and was probably left intentionally as a trap for any Imps who stumbled across the old codes. He nearly chuckles at the thought of a bunch of ‘backwater’ resistance fighters outsmarting the hero of the Empire, but the sound of the man groaning behind him cuts through his amusement. If only those rebels had left a slightly more lethal weapon behind. Then they might have eliminated the problem.

“Looks like it was a trap,” he calls down to the man still moaning on the ground behind him.

“Yes, I caught that too,” Skonn coughs out in annoyance.

“There goes your theory.” 

The other man pushes himself slowly off the ground, seeming to realize the Mandalorian isn’t about to help him up. “My logic still stands, we just need to look for newer symbols.”

“And you know these new symbols?” He half hopes Skonn doesn’t. The man had been praised in the Empire for too many years to still be able to pull off any undercover work, though he could always train new infiltrators.

“New enough.” Skonn responds testily, and the Mandalorian makes a mental note to make sure Skonn went through every doorway first. 

* * *

Their renewed search takes even longer. They manage to find two more doorways with the crescent indent, but no sign of anything else. Skonn seems to have lost a bit of his own fire in the blast, and has to periodically stop and take several gulping breaths before coughing more smoke from his lungs. The Mandalorian generously offers to take over the search alone, but is met with no more than a shrewd look from the other man. He could only hope that the earlier trap had set off some kind of alarms that might inform Amira that she was being looked for. There is no way Skonn would give him the opportunity to search for her on his own.

Eventually they wind up back on the busier market streets when the Commander spots another indented symbol, this time nearly at the base of the doorway. Despite the awkward location, the indention is much cleaner than the others they’ve seen so far. And slightly more complicated.

“You recognize it?”

“No, but it's here for a reason.”

“After you.” He offers once more, not entirely trusting the Commander’s reasoning.

“I thought I might try a slightly more subtle approach this time,” Skonn drawls. “This is clearly someone’s residence, there won’t be any army or any real weapons waiting for us in there. And there’s no other exit but this one.”

And with that he simply reaches out to press the door’s buzzer. The Mandalorian thinks he can hear the sounds of a movement and shuffling inside, but to his surprise the door actually slides open after a few moments to reveal one of the occupants.

Marva.

“By order of the Empire we will need to search these premises.” Skonn announces with authority, already stepping inside the doorway before Marva can even step back. The Mandalorian is forced to follow him inside, allowing the door to shut behind them. Marva glances briefly at him, but he can’t read anything in her expression. It is easy to forget that behind the kindly old face is a seasoned resistance fighter, who knows never to give anything away.

“Tell me, ma’am, are you the only occupant here?” Skonn, on the other hand, plays his hand far too quickly, assuming that he has the advantage here. He hadn’t even looked back towards the woman as he asked. Which means he also isn’t looking back at the Mandalorian.

A swift crack to the skull with the butt of his blaster has the man crumpling to the ground unconscious. To his side he can see that Marva had also been reaching for a weapon. His sudden betrayal of his partner isn’t enough to move her hand from her hip.

“You don’t need to tell me anything, but she’s not safe here. Neither are you.” 

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Despite it all, it’s still a shock to see her walking out into the room, looking as determined as the day she had killed the Stormtroopers. But her expression is warmer now. Distrust replaced by concern - concern for him. He can somehow feel it, even if it doesn’t make much sense.

He spent all morning thinking of just what he would say when he found her. All the things he would tell her - what is was like to wake up and find her missing, how stupid it was for her run off on her own - but instead all he says is this. 

“The Marshal put a bounty on you. Dead or alive.” It comes out a little more abruptly than he means it too, and he nearly winces at the harshness of the statement. He looks to Amira to see how she’s handling the news.

Amira merely sighs, “I thought he might, though I had hoped to have a few more hours.”

“You don’t seem surprised.” Even he had been shocked by the man’s coldness towards his supposed niece.

“I told you, I know what kind of man he is. I’ve always known.” She offers him a pained smile. The Mandalorian may know what it is to lose family, but at least he never had to lose them while they still lived. Even Amira’s betrayal hadn’t been anywhere near as cruel.

“And I know what kind of man you are,” her voice softens. “Which is why I had to leave you where you’d be safe.”

“Where I’d be sent to kill you.”

“And if I had brought you with me the Marshal would be after you now too. The entire Guild as well.”

It flashes back to him with sudden clarity, their entire conversation from the night before. She had already told him she was leaving, in so many words, and had asked him to come with her. And instead of saying yes, he had told her they’d both be hunted down. And so once again she had left to keep him safe, even at the expense of herself.

“So you planned to leave the planet on your own.”

“She’s not on her own,” Marva reminds him. The Mandalorian notices the old woman is quieter now than he remembers her being before.

Before her grandson was forced into hiding, he realizes. His admiration for the woman’s strength if ever-increasing. But there’s no time to dwell on it.

“They’ve already locked down security at the port,” he informs them.

“We have it covered,” a ghost of a smile crosses Marva’s lips. The Mandalorian is left to wonder just who all ‘we’ entails and how they plan to get past the tightened security.

“They’ll never stop chasing you.” He feels the need to remind her, all of them. Whatever they’re planning can’t possibly keep her safe forever.

“I’m pretty good at running.”

He has to admit that she is. 

“What if you didn’t have to?” A plan is beginning to form in his mind.

“I already told you I can’t kill him,” she sighs. “Not that it would help me much.”

“I wasn’t talking about killing him.”

Either his thoughts are clearer this time or she arrives at the same idea, because he can see the moment when comprehension dawns on her face.

“But how would you prove it?”

He indicates the weapon at his back. “The disruptor. All I’d need is enough inorgo material to verify your identity.”

“But I didn’t bring anything identifying with me,” she frowns.

“Your jewelry.” He offers.

“I need them. The metal is the only thing of worth I have to get me away from here.”

“I can get you away.” She’ll be safer on his ship than any one she can bribe her way on to. He only hopes Marva and the rest will trust him with whatever Resistance location they were planning to take her to.

Marva shakes her head. “It’s not enough, even with thousands of credits in there she could have easily just given it to you to take back. And then there’s the other problem.”

They both look down at where Skonn is still slumped across the floor.

“We need a witness.” He suggests.

“And how will you convince him?” Marva asks.

“I can’t. But she can.” 

Their eyes turn towards Amira.

“I can’t,” she breathes.

“You can take things from people’s minds,” Marva doesn’t seem particularly surprised to hear this at least, and the Mandalorian is thankful he hasn’t accidentally betrayed her secret, “you can put something in.”

“I can’t - I’ve never done it before.”

“Which is it?” He doesn’t believe for a moment she’s actually incapable of it.

“I’d be more likely to cause permanent brain damage.”

“It would be an improvement.” 

A real smile from Marva at that, even if it is quickly suppressed.

“What would I even try and put there? Just words, sounds? It’s not enough to create a memory. He can see.”

He hadn’t thought about that - Amira couldn’t exactly put a visual of her own death in his head, not when she didn’t even know what she looked like. Let alone what a biological entity looked like being torn apart atom by atom. 

“I’ll create the image then, you can take it from me.”

Amira looks horrified at the suggestion, “I just told you it might cause brain damage - it’s not like overhearing a thought. I’d have to actually take something from you. And I already hurt you once when I tried to enter your mind. I won’t do it again.”

“I can handle it.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking me to do...”

But he does know. He remembers well enough the feeling of her pressing into his mind, the sharp spike of pain cracking through his skull. And there’s a risk he might lose something in the process. But the alternative is so much worse - leaving her to be hunted down for the rest of her life, maybe even captured and used as the weapon she had always feared becoming. He’d risk the pain and the damage to keep the Empire from inflicting more terror on the galaxy. From inflicting it on her.

“I trust you.” He had told her once already he trusted her with his mind, and he still trusts her now.

Still, it takes a little more convincing from both himself and Marva before she is calm enough to really consider it. He starts to worry Skonn will wake up before they’ve come up with a workable strategy.

“You’ll have to create a very clear image of yourself killing me, and Marva too, through Skonn’s perspective. And you’ll have to push it to the front of your mind, and keep it there. I won’t be able to search for it, you’ll have to lead me there, even if it hurts more.”

And somehow he hadn’t considered how awful it would be to imagine her torn to oblivion by his own weapon, all while feeling the smugness that Skonn certainly would at the sight. His stomach churns but he forces himself to think and rethink the image, until it crystalizes in his thoughts.

The white hot pain of her stealing the image from his mind is almost a relief, except that it’s so much worse than before. When she had tried to press her words into his thoughts he had felt them like knives sliding right behind his eyes. Taking something is instead like razor sharp claws tearing at his skull, ripping apart everything that he is. It’s nearly impossible to think. He’s only left with the painfully vivid image of her death and the awareness of his own excruciating agony. 

He nearly collapses when she severs the connection with his mind, but Marva manages to steady him with surprising strength, guiding him to sit back against the wall for support. He’s thankful they didn’t try this standing up.

He watches blearily as the process is reversed with Skonn. He’s lucky to be unconscious for this, but he can see from the grimace that forms and the tightness of the man’s muscles that the pain is still felt somehow. Amira looks fairly nauseated herself, a sheen forming on her skin from the strain of using her powers. The Mandalorian feels fairly drenched in sweat himself, and he barely did anything. But what had felt like hours to him was apparently merely the work of a few moments, because Amira is already pulling back from the Commander. 

“How will we know if it worked?” She sounds as wrung out as he feels.

“Really only one way.”

They hasten to set the scene while they wait for Skonn to recover. Marva goes back to change her clothing - as does Amira, who comes back wearing something that looks like it may have come from Jessamyn. Who he hasn’t yet seen but suspects may be here as well. It might be better that he doesn’t know everything, in case this doesn’t work.

They lay out their old clothes, and drop Amira’s jewelry box just as if they had been disrupted in place. In the false image the Mandalorian had created, Amira had used her powers to knock Skonn on the head, and the Mandalorian was forced to disrupt her before she could use her powers on him, and on Marva too. Amira would have been at the doorway she had really entered from, with Marva still near the doorway. The image was as simple and as close to the truth as possible.

“We’ll wait with her behind the exhaust grate in hangar 5B until you’re able to return to your ship.” Marva explains as they pack up to leave. “If you don’t return we’ll assume your plan failed and we’ll go back to our original one.”

They haven’t told him their original plan yet, another thing he’s better off not knowing if he’s heading back to the lion’s den. He does make sure Marva will be able to get Amira out of the house without any witnesses, however. It turns out there is another exit from the house - a small refuse chute that only Amira’s small form can get through. But it will take her back away from the busy streets to where Marva can escort her safely to the shipyard to wait for him. 

He hopes he’ll make it back to her alive.

* * *

As it turns out, Skonn’s false memory is a little hazier than they would have hoped, but he appears strangely convinced by the fact that Mandalorian had turned his disruptor on Marva too. It seems to him such embarrassing overkill for an old woman that he brings it up over and over as they return to the compound, apparently cementing the rest of the story in his mind along with it. Plus there’s Amira’s clothing - the same ones she had worn the night he had first seen her scars, and had carried her to bed - made locally and ‘cheap’ just as Skonn had predicted, another point he seems to latch on to. And the jewelry, worth hundreds of thousands of credits all told, something she couldn’t possibly get around without. It’s enough that he doesn’t pay much attention to the holes in his memory. Or the way his limbs will still sporadically twitch. The Mandalorian is still feeling some of the after effects himself.

The Marshal is a little more skeptical, and definitely none too happy at the state his ‘niece’ is returned in. There are a few moments where the Mandalorian suspects he might actually be upset over the idea of Amira’s death, but whether he is mourning the loss of her or of his weapon it’s impossible to tell. 

“20,000 credits then, as promised.” No mention is made of his original fee for protecting Amira, and he thinks better of bringing it up himself. At least he already got enough in advance for making the necessary repairs to his ship.

It’s enough that Gideon doesn’t notice any problems with their story, and is allowing him to leave with his ship functioning plus the 20,000. He finds himself once again thankful that the Marshal has no idea the true extent of what Amira is capable of. Or what he is.

* * *

Not since the first few days here had he thought he’d be so happy to be returning to the Razor Crest. He realizes he hasn’t checked on his ship once since the early weeks when he was needed to inspect the repairs. Somehow it doesn’t seem nearly so long as the time he spent worrying over Amira's absence just today. The few waking hours they’ve spent apart is the longest they’ve gone in the several months they’ve spent together, and it was far too damn long to go without knowing she was safe. It’s only slightly easier now, aided by the fact that she’s more or less safe in the company of the local Resistance. He’d still prefer to get her as far away from the people who wish to use her as possible.

Which is why he’s irritated to find that the specified hangar is some distance from his ship. Most of the Troopers are stationed outside the ship yard, monitoring all regular points of entry. His weapons and bags are checked near half a dozen times just on the way in. But there’s enough stalking through the rest of the yard that it will be tricky to move Amira unseen. It’s only due to a random disruption in 7E - apparently a merchant vessel that is refusing a full search - that there is any opportunity to avoid detection.

He breathes out a sigh of relief that Amira is already waiting for him just outside the loosened grate, Marva pushing a small case into her hands, both of them understanding that there’s no time to waste. Amira and Marva part with a last clasp of their hands before the Mandalorian reaches for her, leading her swiftly and silently towards the Razor Crest. 

They don’t run, to avoid drawing any attention. There’s several near misses along the convoluted path back to his ship, but aside from a few apathetic repair droids they make it through the corridors mostly unnoticed. The Mandalorian feels like he can barely breathe until he guides her into the safety of the hold, shutting the rear door behind them. 

He takes the first real breath he’s taken all day, and Amira nearly laughs with the relief that their insane plan actually worked. He decides it was worth all of it just to see her here in front of him, smiling and safe.

It’s only then that he thinks to ask Amira what Marva handed her.

“This was plan A,” she starts before a voice from outside echoes through the hull. 

“By order of the Empire we are searching this vessel,” the Marshal’s voice echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger! But I promise I'm nearly halfway through the next chapter already, the last real one before the epilogue, and I promise not to make you all wait too long this time.


	15. Dawn

_ “By order of the Empire we are searching this vessel.” _

The Mandalorian quickly maps his ship in his mind, searching for a place to hide Amira from the small army of Stormtroopers amassing outside the Razor Crest. But this is no smuggling ship, and even with Amira’s small frame, there are not many places she’d fit - and they’ll certainly check his bunk and the fresher, as well as all the storage and escape pods. His only hope is hiding her behind the unused carbonite frames in the cryo chamber. If he pulls out the gas cylinders there might be just enough room, and it’s as unlikely a place to find someone as he can think of. 

He somehow manages this all in the space of time it takes the Marshal outside to repeat his message, slipping an unresisting Amira and her case behind several frames - enough to disguise the emptied carbonite ports and her hiding space. If anyone gets too curious he still has his weapons on him, and with the bottleneck the ship creates they might stand a chance. He opens only the small side gate, rather than the larger back door, to narrow entry to the ship even further.

Gideon is the first through the entryway, followed by half a dozen troopers. It goes against all of the Mandalorians instincts, but he keeps his weapons sheathed as they file into the narrow hull.

“It seems the Commander’s memories were a little vague on the subject of my ward’s...termination,” the Marshal pauses at this description, but quickly recovers. “And it occurred to me that there might be others out there who would pay far more than 20,000 for such a bounty.”

Of course Gideon only considers what she’s worth as a pawn in these wars, but it works to the Mandalorians advantage here. His response to the accusation comes out easily.

“Not more than Guild standing is worth.”

It’s the truth, and the Marshal is aware of it as well. There’s no amount of money worth violating the bounty hunter’s guild code, bringing down the full force of its membership against whoever betrays them. He’d be a fool to try and sell a ticket to the next highest bidder.

He’s a fool to try and save her.

“That may be so,” the Marshal replies shrewdly, “still, the rebellion has often shown itself to be irrational in its behavior. If you wish to keep your good standing with the Guild, you will step aside and allow us to search your ship.” 

The Mandalorian indicates his agreement with a very literal step to the side, allowing the Stormtroopers to fan out and inspect the ship. 

As predicted, they immediately check the small bunk and nearby fresher first. Two more troopers enter the ship to join the search as well. It’s not a large ship, and the Marshal is forced to wait by the doorway by the crowd inside.

He tries not to look too much towards Amira’s hiding place, but he keeps it always in his periphery. Several of the troopers climb up to check the cockpit and storage area, while another has him enter the code to open his weapons case. He loses sight of the cryo chamber for a moment, but the others down here were still checking through his luggage last he saw them.

There’s really no room to fit a grown woman anywhere within his weapons store, so the inspection only takes a few moments. Unfortunately, that’s just enough time for the troopers to start nosing around the carbonite chamber. His right hand slips easily to the blaster at his hip, ready to make sure none of them finds anything. 

But then one of the troopers steps out of the chamber, shaking his head, and the Mandalorian forces himself to relax somewhat. As he had hoped, none of them tries to remove the carbonite frames to look any more deeply. The tech is still new enough and dangerous enough that most beings in the galaxy are rightfully wary of it, and no one willingly wants to step into one. With the gas cylinders removed the chamber is safe enough, but he still thought better than to tell Amira just what he was hiding her in.

All told they spend about half an hour probing every other nook and cranny of the ship, even checking around the landing gear and the top of the ship. The Marshal walks through for one last look, and leaves without another word. He only knows he’s been cleared when the troopers start exiting the Razor Crest, allowing him to finally slam the gate closed behind them.

He listens for just a moment, just to make sure no orders are being given to just blow up his ship with them both in it. But all he hears is the distant clanking of the Stormtroopers marching off to hassle someone else’s ship. He knows he should take off immediately, before he’s met with any more surprises, but his first instinct is to check on Amira. 

However, when he turns around, he’s met with the cold gaze of a Stormtrooper’s helmet. His hand reaches for his blaster once again, internally berating himself for having missed this. But then the Stormtrooper is pulling off his helmet, and long dark hair is spilling out if it confines.

Amira.

“What…” 

“This was plan A.” She spreads her arms to lead his gaze down to the rest of her costume, “it was a little more difficult to get on in the back of the cryo chamber though. I think part of it might be backwards.”

He winces a little that Amira knows just where she was hiding, but she doesn’t seem too upset by the decision. He looks a little more closely at the armor and notes that even if nothing is actually on backwards, it's still not quite right. That and her height should have given her away if anyone had looked too closely, but anonymity is built into the armor. Though there’s still the question of where they even got it.

“The Resistance uses these occasionally to smuggle people off-planet, but they’re really hard to come by - and even harder to hold onto. If you can, could you bring this back to the exhaust grate? Someone will be back to collect it.”

He nearly refuses. The two of them need to get the hell off this planet and away from Gideon and his men as soon as they can. But he thinks of Marva, and her grandson, and relents.

Amira tugs off all the pieces as the Mandalorian collects them and returns them to their case, surprised and mostly a little thankful to see she’s managed to tuck her own clothing beneath the suit. It shouldn’t really matter now, but it’s good to know there’s absolutely no chance anyone else might have found her clothing tucked back into the chamber. They could have torn apart the whole ship and never found a single trace of her here.

Still, he asks her to hide in the cryo one last time while he takes the case back to the other hangar, not wanting to take any chances. And he has to force himself not to hurry with his task, attempting to give off the impression he’s simply returning some repair tools that have been left with his ship.

He doesn’t feel comfortable bringing her up the cockpit until they leave atmo, not wanting to risk anyone spotting her through the windows. And it’s not until she’s sitting safely behind him that it hits him he never fully thought through what comes next. Where were they even heading to? Some Resistance base? He doesn’t think any of them will exactly be open to a Mandalorian dropping by. And he certainly couldn’t take her back to any of his usual ports in the Outer Rim

They did all of this so neither one of them would have to be on the run, but the fact remains that she’s not safe in his world, and he’s not exactly welcome in hers. He’s faced once again with the inevitably of their diverging paths. His throat feels tight when he thinks to ask her where they’re heading, not sure which he dreads more - that she’ll ask to stay with him, or that she won’t.

Amira’s soft voice fills the silence between them. “You’ll want to avoid passing by any of the nearby planets with your ship. The Resistance is amassing somewhere close by to retake Neridiaam. With the security plans I gave them they’ll probably be moving on it soon.”

It answers some of his questions, but none of the important ones. 

“I know what you’re thinking -” and she always does, “why not just stay? But Neridiaam is not my home. And though I believe in the ideals of the Resistance, right now they are fighting a war. They wouldn’t be able to help seeing me as a potential weapon any more than my Uncle could. They’re all either afraid of me or wish to use me for their own ends. Even Marva and the others…” she pauses, not bothering to explain what the Mandalorian can already guess. Stealing the security plans and putting herself at risk obviously hadn’t been something Amira had decided to do all on her own. 

“Other than my parents, you’re the only other person I’ve known who was afraid  _ for _ me when they found out,” she admits softly.

And it hits him again just how lonely she’s been out here all these years. His mind races to find some way to keep her here with him, how to keep her safe in this world. “I…”

“It’s alright, I already know. It’s not safe for either of us to stay together.” His chest tightens at her words, even though he knows their truth. “I’m so tired of all the fighting…”

It’s this, more than anything, that cements the idea that she doesn’t belong in his world. Even if he could keep her safe, hell, even if she’s fairly capable of protecting herself, she’s been exposed to so much violence and cruelty in her life already. Fighting is the Mandalorian way, but it’s never been hers. The life she wants, the one she deserves, is one far away from him.

After a long silence, she begins again. “My mother had a friend, Shei Nejaa, she grew tired of the fighting on our world too. She moved out to a Mirialan farming colony in the Outer Rim, before the Marshal came into our lives. I think I might find some peace there.”

The Mandalorian knows of only one such colony, and his fingers are keying in the coordinates before her words have fully settled into his mind. The planet in question will have her much nearer to him than if she had been off on some Rebel base, but they’ll still be worlds apart. Perhaps she will find work on one of the farms, and spend her days among the plants she’s always loved so much, without another thought to the wars the rage on at the galaxy’s center. And maybe she’ll find others there who will see her abilities as the gift that they are - maybe even find…

He’s not quite ready to think of that yet. It’s enough to remind himself that she’ll be safe there, and will have at least one friend there. And he’ll go back to his life from before, now with 20,000 credits to bring back to his people. It’s not as much as he’d hoped, but he’ll take on a few more big jobs, whatever Greef has for him. There’s a blinking light at his console that means he probably already has a holo waiting from the man. He considers opening it just to distract himself, and fill the silence between them.

“Go ahead,” Amira’s voice gently interrupts his thoughts. He’s forgotten that the silence between them was his alone. “It’ll be less suspicious if you’re back in contact with the Guild.”

She’s right of course, and he opens the message, immediately lowering the volume of the playback. Even though it’s only a recording, it’s still somewhat unsettling to see Greef’s face and hear his voice with Amira so out in the open. The volume is now low enough he can hear a quiet laugh behind him, and he wonders if she’s heard those thoughts as well. But she’s otherwise silent as he fires back a minimal response, letting the Guild leader know he’ll be out his way in another day or two’s time. Just enough time to take Amira to her new home.

* * *

He wishes he had given himself more time. 

When they finally make it out to the colony, and ask around the nearest town for the name of Shei’s village, it’s almost dark already. They discover that her village is at least half a day’s walk through the forest, or about the same amount of time by landcruiser going the long way. They’ve both been up since well before dawn on Neridiaam, and after nearly 32 hours awake and far too many close calls, they’re both too exhausted to continue on throughout the night.

The Mandalorian asks for a room at the local tavern, before going back to find Amira half asleep at the table where he left her. He thinks it’s only her exhaustion that keeps her from putting up a fight whenever he’s stepped away to gather information on his own. A bounty hunter asking around isn’t exactly subtle, but it’s better than they’re seen together as little as possible, just in case. To that end he takes them on a circuitous path to their room, avoiding as many guests as possible. 

The guest rooms are built as small pods over top of the tavern, with short ladders leading up to a hatch door, which is a struggle to get his armor through. The room itself is small as well but serviceable. There’s a tiny fresher off to the side, just enough for Amira to wash off the grime of traveling here on foot, though she has nothing to change into. But she takes off her shoes and leggings, leaving her in just a light tunic that barely brushes the tops of her thighs as she slips into the bed. He watches as she settles herself back towards the wall, leaving plenty of space nearer to the door. But he sits himself in the room’s only available chair instead.

“I need to keep watch.”

He hears her huff out a laugh, “this is a farming colony, Mandalorian.”

“The doors barely lock,” he points out.

“They don’t need to.”

Her head is tilted away from her but even without fully seeing her expression he can feel the silent contest of will that is occurring. 

They are both far too exhausted for this.

He thinks he may have won when her eyes finally shut, but a look of concentration comes over her face. She doesn’t say anything, but he suddenly hears the scraping of the heavy bed as it awkwardly slides across the floor. It moves inch by slow inch until it’s settled less than two feet to the left, right over the door hatch.

“It will be even heavier with you over here,” she grins out her victory despite the fatigue in her voice. 

Amira was always going to win this one, he realizes, recognizing his own exhaustions. There was no way he was going to be able to stay up another full night. Not when he’s barely been able to sleep these past few weeks, and these last several nights in particular. The temptation to sleep in a real bed for once is overwhelming, and the fact that Amira would be there next to him....

It’s been so long since he’s been able to sleep without his full armor on. He realizes there’s no way he can wear it in such a small space without potentially hurting her. But more than that he doesn’t want to wear it at this moment, not when it’s the last night they’ll be sharing the same space.

Amira’s expression turns from self-satisfied to simply pleased at the sound of his heavy boots being cast off, followed by his gloves and all his various bracers and belts as he turns from her. The chestplate and pauldrons are a little harder to remove with as tired as he is, but he manages, and sets them across the chair. 

There’s a small war that takes place internally, but finally he reaches for his helmet, tugging it off before he has a chance to change his mind again. The skin of his face feels raw and too exposed the minute the muggy air in the room hits it. He hears the sound of Amira’s breath catching behind him but when he looks back she’s turned to face the opposite wall. Not that she could see any of this, but he can feel that she’s trying to offer him as much privacy as she can. 

He rids himself of all the duraweave under armor as quickly as he can, ignoring the mixed sensations of wrongness and rightness leaving himself in such a vulnerable state with another person so near. He doesn’t think he could stand the feeling of cold water against his bare skin with how raw his nerves feel right now, so runs an available dry cloth quickly over his exposed skin. 

Amira is still turned away as he kills the lights and slides awkwardly into the bed behind her, and he’s thankful for the space it gives him to adjust to the novel sensation of it. The feel of a soft bed beneath him, the faint scratch of well worn sheets against his bare limbs, the warmth that’s pouring off of Amira’s skin into the space between them. He sets his head down on the pillow, adjusting to the give of the material instead of unyielding beskar. It’s nearly suffocating when he rolls over onto his side, and he ends up moving towards the very edge of the pillow where it thins. He catches the scent of Amira’s hair where it pools across her own pillow in front of him, so much headier with nothing between them now. He takes several deep breaths to calm himself.

When it finally feels as though he’s not drowning in his senses, he carefully reaches out to Amira’s side, touching the curve of her waist to signal that she can turn around. She moves back slowly. There’s only a little light coming in from the small skylight above them, but it’s enough to see that her eyes remain closed the whole time. Intellectually, he knows she can’t see him even with her eyes open, but he appreciates the gesture. He expects to feel a knee-jerk sensation of wrongness as she faces him, but it’s strangely absent. Still, even as he catches sight of the dark strands that have fallen across her forehead, he resists the urge to brush them back, already far too aware of how closely her face is to his own.

Amira’s hand reaches out tentatively between them, into the small space separating them, before drawing her hand back, seeming also to recognize that that it’s too much right now. But the Mandalorian catches her hand in his own, lacing their fingers together and setting their joined hands in the space between them. He remembers her need to touch him while she sleeps, and he hopes this is enough. It’s more than enough for him, just to have her here next to him. To see with naked eyes the dark fan of her eyelashes across her cheeks in the moonlight, the small smile she gives at the tangle of their fingers. To be completely enveloped in the scent and warmth of her body lying so close.

And so he fights against sleep, etching this moment into his memory as deeply as he can.

* * *

The subtle brightening of the dawn draws wakes him once more, far earlier than he had planned. Amira is still fast asleep beside him, her small hand still clutched within his own. The distance between them feels smaller than he remembers, but perhaps it is merely a trick of the early light. The sun hasn’t quite risen, but enough of the dawn bleeds through the skylight that he can see her more clearly now than the evening before. This close, he can see the faint dusting of freckles across her skin, and the shallow worry lines at her brow that haven’t entirely disappeared in sleep. 

He’s tempted to lean forward, closing the short distance between them to press his forehead against her own, soothing away those worries - a not uncommon urge. Far stranger is the desire he feels to press his lips to her skin, something he’s barely allowed himself to consider before. There’s a prickling beneath his flesh that finally pushes him forward, shuffling quietly, to bring his forehead to hers. He is careful not to press too hard as the warmth of her skin floods through him. Amira’s fingers subtly tighten in their grasp as she curls sleepily into him. The Mandalorian smiles at the feeling of her knees accidentally bumping against his thighs. She wakes slowly, her body still trying to shift further into his space. 

Even though her eyes remain closed, he thinks he can sense the moment she becomes fully awake. Her head moves slightly, discovering the places where they meet, and rubbing her cheek across her pillow. Which she is clearly still on, and she seems to guess that that means he had been the one who moved. A smile spreads across her lips even as she presses back against him.

“Good morning,” she breathes.

He hums out a similar response, neither one of them making any moves towards getting up, or even shifting apart. The Mandalorian does release her hand from his own, but only so that he can finally brush back the hair from her forehead, which is now tickling his own. He tucks the dark strands deftly behind her ear, allowing his fingers to brush along her neck and shoulder as he draws back. But Amira arches into the sensation, and he continues his pathway down her arm, gently tracing over the thin fabric of her sleeves. He takes her hand again, this time allowing his fingers to run along her own. Amira’s fingers twist lightly in his grasp to playfully entangle with his. She presses into the spaces between each of his fingers before mapping the shape of them, and the Mandalorian gets so caught up in the delicate touch he nearly misses her whispering his name.

“Mandalorian...” she begins, and there’s a moment where he considers telling her his given name, a name he hasn’t used in so many years. But she’ll be safer without it. As it is, he’ll have to try and forget about this planet, her new home. 

He won’t forget any of the rest of it though. Especially not this. And he thinks she won’t either, if the way she’s currently memorizing the shape of his hands is any indication. His gaze shifts between watching the gentle play of their fingers, and the soft line of her lips as she speaks once again.

“Mandalorian, may I kiss you?”

He can feel her words breathed out across his lips, as his own breath catches in his throat. He’s half tempted to remind her they already are kissing, in a way, but it doesn’t seem the time to tease her. He tries to nod, but she’s far too close already. Not trusting his own voice, he answers the only way he can think to - tilting down and pressing his lips to hers.

He worries he’s done it too quickly, or pressed too hard. But she’s giggling against his mouth, which means he hasn’t hurt her, though he’s probably done it all wrong. He pulls back just as fast.

“You have a mustache,” she laughs into the space between them. 

It takes his mind a second to catch up with what she’s telling him. He had never really considered it before, or how it might interfere with this. “Is that ok?” 

“Of course,” she assures him “it just tickles. Can I?”

Her hand hovers just above his shoulder, and he reaches up to press it the bared skin right above his collar. Her fingers slip back slightly, catching at the back of his neck to tug him forward. This time she moves up to meet him, moving far more slowly than he had.

There’s no laughter this time, just the gentle press of soft lips against his own. He allows her to guide the kiss this time, letting himself just enjoy the unfamiliar sensation. And then she adds a whole new layer to it as her lips begin to move against his, gently tugging at his bottom lip and leaving it tingling in the aftermath. He does his best to mirror her movements, pleased with himself at the small sounds of pleasure he’s met with. 

His own hand reaches up to tug at her waist, drawing her closer into him. When her knees bump into his again, he slides his hand down to tug her bare leg up over his hip, allowing the other to slip between his knees. Amira arches even further into him without prompting, tightening her grip on the back of his neck as she presses her chest against his own. Which leaves his hand free to continue running along the back of her exposed thigh, pressing his own leg upwards until he’s met with a gasp. He smiles into their kiss, pleased to remind her he’s not lacking experience in this area.

She retaliates by nipping at his lip, drawing out a surprised gasp of him. He hadn’t really thought that was something that could feel as nice as it had, but he doesn’t feel like he could safely repeat the gesture on her. So instead he breaks their kiss to brush his whiskers across her lips once again, purposely this time, and smiles at the giggling he’s met with. He continues along with it, running the stubble of his chin along her jaw and neck. Even though she laughs at the move she still tilts her head to expose more of her skin to the onslaught. 

When he pulls back for a moment, he can see the faint red lines that he’s left behind on her delicate skin. For once he doesn’t panic at the easy marring, and, even as he soothes her skin with lighter brushes of lips and tongue, some small part of him hopes these marks will linger a little while. That she’ll still be able to feel them even after he’s gone.

It’s that thought that has him rolling them over, pressing between the easy spread of her legs to settle between them with a groan. This time there’s only a few thin layers that separate them, and he can feel the heat of her pressed along his entire front.

“‘Mira…”

He gives in to the urge to continue running his lips and jaw over any bit of skin he can reach, her fingers providing encouragement as they grasp at his nape and tangle in his hair - and it really is as nice as she had made it seem to have her small fingers running through his hair, leaving little sparks of pleasure in their wake. He presses something that might be a kiss to her temples, the corners of her closed eyelids, dragging the stubble of his jaw against soft cheeks. The fingers in his hair tighten as his lips brush against her exposed collarbone, and her whole body arches up against him at the accidental scrape of his teeth along the fragile curve. He can feel his cock growing heavy at the way her legs draw him in further to the cradle of her hips, pressing him firmly against her heated core. 

His hands scramble down to tug her tunic up and over her head, eager to reach more of her skin. Amira happily assents, tugging at his own undershirt until he’s groaning at the feeling of their bare torsos pressed together. She tugs him back into another kiss, this time allowing her tongue to slip past his lips to stroke at his own, as his hands clutch eagerly at her naked sides. Her own hands trace dizzying patterns along his spine, and he feels completely surrounded by her touch on all sides. 

His skin feels so raw like this, his every nerve exposed at the points where they meet. And the way she’s already shaking a little in his arms means he’s not alone in the feeling. Her legs wrapped around his own keep tugging him down into her, but he doesn’t want to rush this. The Mandalorian eases his grip on her waist to slowly draw one of his hands up to cup her bare breast, thumbs brushing lightly over the stiff peaks of her nipples. Amira’s moans are swallowed by their kiss but she presses up into his touch, urging his hands onto her.

He slides his other hand behind her back, pulling her up into his lap and giving his hands more room to explore her bare skin. Somehow he hadn’t considered that she might want to do the same, as one of her arms loops around his neck to steady herself but the other hand reaches down to trace along his chest and stomach. He can’t even remember the last time someone touched him like this, so carefully and with no armor between them, and he can feel his muscles twitching in response to each careful brush of her fingers. 

The Mandalorian also hadn’t anticipated the feeling of her lips moving along his jawline, sucking at the lobe of his ear and nipping down the corded muscles of his neck. He practically bucks up into her at the feeling of teeth closing around the join of his neck and shoulder, where he never even realized he was so sensitive, and he groans at the realization that she’s likely leaving marks of her own. 

Amira rolls her hips down against him in response, and it’s so much better this time without all the layers between them. He can feel her already warm and damp through her undergarments, just as she can probably feel him hardening against her. His mouth returns to her neck, and Amira drops back against the strong arm at her back as his lips move further down. He nips at her collarbone on purpose this time, placing a sucking kiss there as her hips stutter in their rhythm against him. 

She cries out at the feeling of his lips closing around a tight nipple, and he spares a moment to think about the people in the rooms around them, but then her fingers are tangling in his hair, scraping lightly against his scalp even as they hold his head in place, and he finds he doesn’t care. He continues to tease her breasts, alternating soft, suckling kisses - delighting in the taste of her skin and the feeling of her against his tongue - and careful scrapes of his chin and jaw along the soft undersides, trying to draw out more and more little noises from her. 

He nearly misses the way one of her hands drifts further down his abdomen, a single finger tracing along the edge of his underwear in obvious question. She takes the small thrust of his hips up into her questing fingers as an answer, and slides her small hand beneath the waistband to close around where he’s already hot and hard against her. Her small fingers are cool against his overheated flesh, and it’s nearly a welcome relief except that the careful way she slides her grip along his length only seems to ramp up his temperature. But his hips move along with the teasing rhythm of her hand even as he tries to not lose focus on kissing every inch of her breasts.

When he can feel her trembling above him he finally lays her back against the pillows below, allowing her hand to slip from him with only a little regret. He smiles softly at the way her dark hair forms a tangled halo around her flushed face. She draws him back down for another kiss, the novelty and the freedom of it not taken for granted by either of them. But even as she tries her best to distract him with lips and tongue, he manages to slide a hand down to cup at her center through the thin fabric that separates them. She moans into their kiss as he presses against her, tracing her through the sodden material, before reaching up and slipping beneath it. She parts easily around his fingers, and the slick glide of it has him sliding a finger inside her even as his thumb reaches up to circle at her clit. 

He groans at the hot, tight clutch of her as his finger slowly slips in until his knuckles are brushing against her. He crooks his finger upwards, carefully stroking along her upper walls. Below him, Amira is forced to break their kiss to take a gulping breath, and he pulls back to watch the rapid rise and fall of her flushed chest as he works his fingers against her. 

The Mandalorian decides he wants to be able to see all of her, and his free hand goes to tug off her final item of clothing. He’s forced to pull away from her to slide the fabric over and off her strong legs, and Amira whines at the feeling of his finger leaving her. But it’s worth it to see her completely bare against the sheets below him, skin practically glowing in the early morning light and covered in the faint red lines left behind from his stubble. He’s struck once again with how much he had missed out on before in always keeping his armor between them. He tries to ignore the feeling of how much time he wasted trying to hold himself back from her. Right now he has her all laid out before him, and he’s free to touch and taste all that bare skin. 

Almost unconsciously, he brings his hand up to his lips, tongue reaching out to taste her on his fingers. She tasted like the ocean air on Mon Cala, like the salt of her skin mixed with something fresh and tangy. Guided by instinct alone, he slides back towards the end of the bed to dip his head between her thighs, wanting to taste her at the source - if this is to be their last day together, he wants to make up for everything they’ve missed out on. Amira clearly isn’t expecting this, even with whatever mind-reading powers she has, and she nearly shouts at the first swipe of his tongue against her. He’s completely surrounded by the salty-sweet smell of her, as his tongue delves further into her folds. Amira’s hands are back to tangle in his hair, seemingly trying to ground herself against the sensation.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but she seems to enjoy the feeling of his tongue against her clit, and he brings his fingers back up to slide into her once more. This time she easily allows two of his fingers to slip in, and he immediately curls them up to find the spot that had her gasping earlier. 

The combination is apparently effective because she’s already shaking beneath him, hands tugging unconsciously at his hair and clutching at his shoulders. He groans into her at a particularly rough tug that leaves his scalp pleasantly sparking, but he hadn’t really considered what the vibrations would do to the woman beneath him. Her entire upper body leaves the bed as she clenches around him, legs flying up around his shoulders. He runs a soothing hand along the nearest thigh, but continues trying to take her apart with fingers and tongue. 

When he hums around her clit, she nearly claws at his shoulders, but he realizes she’s trying to drag him up. He pulls away, and for a moment, he thinks he’s done something wrong, except she’s tugging him up with surprising strength to pull him into a messy kiss. 

“Too much?” He asks, briefly breaking the kiss.

She shakes her head inelegantly against the pillows, “you were perfect.”

Despite the fact he knows he’s nothing at the sort, his chest swells at the praise. 

And then Amira is pushing at his shorts, and he finally recognizes why she stopped him earlier. He spares a quick glance down to her right hip, the little raised ridge there that indicates she’s up to date on her birth control implant, and he knows he’s clear on his. And so he helps her rid him of the final barrier that remains between them, groaning as his bared cock bumps against her hip.

He reaches up to brush her hair back from her face, watching as she smiles softly up at him, eyes open and unfocused, and his chest clenches at the sight of so much trust and care in her expression. He tries to send back the same feeling to her, and even if she can’t see his expression, he knows she’s heard him when she turns her head to press a kiss to his palm. The tenderness of the gesture is almost overwhelming in the moment, and he bends down to capture her lips once more.

The Mandalorian continues kissing her even as he lines himself up at her entrance, slowly pressing into her. He feels more than hears the catch in her breath, which is lost in the sound of his blood pounding in his ears at the tight, hot clench of her around him. But he keeps his pace slow and careful, giving them both time to adjust - he knows he’s not the only one who’s been without for so long.

He doesn’t miss the stuttering of her breath when his hips finally meet hers, fully seated within her. And he won’t forget the sound she makes when he finally starts moving, the slow drag of his cock against her fluttering walls. He tries to memorize everything about this moment, but it’s far too easy to get lost in the sensation of it. Especially as she encourages him to move more, setting a pace of long, shuddering strokes. 

She arches up to meet him each time, kissing him long and slow and deep in pace with their movements. It’s almost unbearably intimate, and the vulnerability of this moment should concern him, though Amira has always had a way of making him leave his own worries behind - even though he sometimes ends up worrying much more about her.

The Mandalorian does his best to keep from letting himself weigh too heavily on the woman below him as he moves in her, keeping himself propped up on one hand while the other strokes soothingly along her side. But Amira’s legs and arms are wrapped tightly around him, pulling him down into her as she kisses every part of him she can reach. When she tugs at the lobe of his ear with her lips and teeth his arm nearly gives out where it’s supporting him. Amira only pulls him closer. 

When he struggles to lift himself back up, Amira just smiles, “stay...”

“I’m too heavy, I’ll -” he finds it even harder to articulate his thoughts with every part of him purely focused on the places where they are joined.

“You won’t crush me, I promise,” she assures him. 

But it doesn’t stop him from worrying, and he tries to lift up once more and put some space between them. When he’s forced to break their kiss to support himself better, Amira frowns beneath him. It’s all the warning he gets before she rolls them over with surprising strength. Too late he remembers that she’s much stronger than she looks, even without her powers. 

The move unfortunately separates them, but Amira simply rises to her knees to rearrange him to her liking, pushing him back against the headboard until he’s half-seated against the pillows. The Mandalorian finds himself amused by the familiar feistiness that always seems to come out whenever he makes the mistake of implying Amira can’t do something, and he can’t help but tug her back into his lap with a snort of laughter at the look of determination on her face.

Amira ends up half seated between his thighs with her back to his chest, which didn’t seem to be the exact position she was going for but the Mandalorian recognizes it does offer him the chance to touch more of her. From this vantage point, he can easily run his hands along her front, kissing along the marks he’s left on her neck and shoulders. He quickly discovers a spot right behind her ear that has her shuddering in his arms. 

The Mandalorian realizes with a frown that she won’t be able to kiss him back like this, which is something he’s never had to consider before. But apparently Amira is already way ahead of him, twisting to the side and tugging his face to meet her in a renewed kiss as she strokes through his hair. In turn he allows his hands to roam once more, cupping at the soft weight of her breasts, brushing along her stomach, and teasing at her clit. Her hips press back against his, his cock twitching against the swell of her ass. He drags her up and onto him once more, still marveling at the feeling of her tight and wet around him. He doesn’t have quite as much leverage from this angle, but it’s worth it for the way Amira’s hips are circling back against him, and the way her inner muscles clench around him each time he presses at her clit or strokes over her breasts.

He can already hear the sounds of the town slowly waking up around them, even in the not-quite dawn, but they’re both too lost in one another to care. Amira is still kissing him, making up for lost time, her back arched at an incredible angle just to keep them connected.

But suddenly she feels too far away, even with her back still sliding slickly along his chest, and Amira lets out a breathless laugh as he quickly shifts them back until he’s on top of her once more. Only this time she’s propped up against the pillows and the headboard so it’s easier to hold himself up over her, and continue running his hands over her.

He settles easily once more into the space between her thighs, and he gets lost for a moment in how perfectly they fit together like this. He watches himself as he presses into her, the open expression of bliss on her face as this new angle brings him even more deeply inside her. He thinks he should give her a moment to adjust, but Amira is already tugging at his hips, guiding him back into their easy glide. Only this time he’s able to work a hand between them, circling at her clit and watching her expression as her breath stutters in her throat. With his free hand, he hikes her leg up even higher, angling himself so he’s dragging across the perfect spot with every thrust.

She tries to pull him down into another kiss, but as their pace quickens they’re practically just breathing one another’s air, lips only occasionally brushing. He can tell she’s close by the way her whole body is winding more tightly around him with each stroke, and he can feel himself nearing the edge as well. It’s all he can do to maintain their rhythm as she clenches more tightly around him, her fingers digging into his hip and shoulder.

She breaks around him just as beautifully, expression completely open even as she clings more tightly and her inner muscles flutter around his cock. His hips stutter at the tight clench of her, and he only manages a few more strokes before he’s following her over the edge, cock pulsing and emptying himself into her.

Still wary of hurting her, he falls to his side, tugging her with him so she’s tucked into his chest as they both come down. Her body is still trembling with aftershocks, and he’s not entirely certain his own isn’t doing the same, and he runs a soothing hand down along her spine while her hands settle over his wildly beating heart. He feels weak as a newborn loth-cat, but for some reason it doesn’t worry him like it should. It goes against everything he’s been taught as a Mandalorian, but it feels right to share this moment with her. Even if it is their last.

He wishes they had a little longer.

“I do too,” Amira whispers into his chest.

* * *

They lie there for what feels like hours, but eventually the daylight becomes too bright to ignore. Whether through intuition or overhearing his thoughts, Amira rises at nearly the same moment he does, though she gathers her clothing slowly before setting herself to rights. The Mandalorian feels both more whole and somehow emptier with his armor back in place. It doesn’t quite feel as right as it had before, but he’s relieved to have it back on for the journey ahead.

When Amira is dressed once more, the Mandalorian goes to push the bed away from the door hatch. Without its occupants, it’s a great deal lighter, but it really is as heavy as Amira had implied and it takes a fair amount of effort to wedge it back into place. It’s no wonder Amira had fallen asleep so quickly afterwards, and he’s glad she didn’t attempt to help him again this morning - even if it would have been faster. 

She has enough to manage with their trek through the forest. It’s the least graceful he’s ever witnessed her being, and she clings tightly to his arm as he navigates them through the dense foliage. She never quite seems to get her bearings with the uneven terrain, and is nearly silent beside him as she tries to keep herself upright. In the beginning, after more than a few stumbles that nearly took them both down, he had gently offered to carry her the rest of their journey. But she simply shook her head, and walked more closely to him. Neither one of them seemed particularly motivated to hurry onwards.

It is a quiet journey. Outside of a few warnings issued whenever they met some new obstacle, the Mandalorian says little. For her part, Amira is nearly silent as well. The Mandalorian is thankful for the distraction their pathway provided them because it keeps him from saying anything stupid, like asking her to turn back and come with him. He does his best to keep it out of his thoughts as well, though the woman beside him has to know by now what he is thinking. But she hasn’t said anything, nor has she tried to ask him to stay here with her. They both know it is an impossibility. Maybe someday, they could…

But not now, not with the paths already laid out ahead of them. He could already see glimpses of the village ahead - small and quiet and full of gently tamed greenery. Perfect for Amira, but no place for one of his kind. He can tell from the way her grip on his arm loosened slightly that she can sense its presence ahead as well. The sounds of people out at work in the lush fields can already be heard through the forest noises, and he can almost smell the freshly turned soil and meal crops filtering through. 

The Mandalorian had been worried about finding her mother’s friend without drawing too much attention to themselves, but most of the villagers seemed not to pay them too much mind as they passed through. The few they speak to didn’t immediately offer up Shei’s location, glancing over at his armor and his weapons, but they are all eventually brought around by Amira’s soft-spoken explanation of her relationship to the woman. They become much friendlier after that, though they are still wary of the Mandalorian.

And it’s good - that meant they weren’t stupid here. The fact that they seemed a little surprised, if not immediately terrified, to see someone like him meant they probably didn’t get too many warriors coming through. That was also good. That meant this place might really be as peaceful and quiet as it seemed now. He allowed himself to relax slightly at this, though he still kept Amira close. He held her hand tightly all the way to Shei Nejaa’s farm.

They passed fields and fields of freshly scented meal crops, and it was obvious the village was thriving on the rich soil here. The homes were all modest but well kept. Not much fancy tech in sight, but plenty of small children running around outside - seeming to enjoy themselves just as well without any gadgets or adult supervision. Shei Nejaa lived towards the edge of the village among the jogan and loquat orchards, a moderately-sized plot she apparently managed with a few local hands.

Before he even noticed the small white home he spotted the garden ahead of him. A wild sea of color and herbal scents that was clearly loved but barely tamed by its owner - Amira would love it immediately. She could easily find work as a gardener in a place like this. And just for a moment he imagines himself setting aside his blaster to work the fields at her side. But it’s nothing more than an idle daydream, he can no more leave his weapons and his people behind than Amira could take them up with him.

It’s then that he finally catches sight of Shei coming up from the orchards. She’s younger than he had imagined her, probably only a few years older than himself, and tall and broad-shouldered. He can feel Amira tensing at his side as he catches sight of Shei, though he is fairly certain Amira’s concerns are very different from his own with this meeting. But she clearly had no reason to fear being unwelcome or unremembered. The older woman’s face lights up immediately with recognition, calling Amira over to her even as she rushes out to greet her.

The Mandalorian squeezes her hand gently within his own, and lets her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final epilogue will take place after the timeline for season 1, so I apologize to anyone hoping for an easy happy ending :( Thank you to everyone who's kept along with me so far, and I hope you all enjoy this bittersweet penultimate chapter.
> 
> And to try and make up for it, here's some sexy Pedro Pascal inspiration I used for the middle bit: https://pedropcl.tumblr.com/post/190901134845


	16. Epilogue

_ Seven years later _

He’s thought about her a lot over the years. Sometimes it’s like he can still feel her in his mind, though he knows it’s more likely just all in his head. But even though he doubts thoughts can reach across the galaxy, he somehow instinctively knows that she’s alright. And he hates that now he’s probably bringing trouble back to her doorstep. He can't say exactly what he hopes to find here, other than her - somehow he's certain she'll know what to do with the child currently toddling behind him.

Back then, she had brought him to her new home so that he could find her again someday. And though it’s taken many years, he walks the path through the woods as if he had only just left. Only his current companion climbs more willingly up into his arms to be carried over the uneven pathway. He only wiggles himself back down to the ground when they reach the clearing where the little farming village lies.

He finds her almost right where he left her, predictably tending to the garden which has only expanded and grown wilder in the intervening years. The woman herself looks much the same, perhaps with a few more lines around her eyes, though looking far more relaxed in her surroundings than she ever had in the time he’d known her. 

The biggest change is the little girl that clings to her skirts as she works, with pale lavender skin that speaks to her Mirialan parentage and dark hair done up in familiar braids. The little girl hides behind her as he approaches, but the woman just smiles as if she already knew he was coming.

He’s been imagining this reunion for weeks, if not years if he’s being honest with himself, but somehow the first words out of his mouth are, “is she yours?”

The Mandalorian winces at the question, but Amira just laughs. “She’s Shei’s. She got married a little while after…,” she trails off, before smiling down fondly at the girl still tucked behind her simple skirts. “Lena just likes to help me with the garden.”

Something loosens in his chest at the easy answer, and he tries to ignore the guilt at the relief he feels. 

“And is he yours?” She nods in the general direction of where the little womp rat is currently toddling past his legs towards Amira. She drops down easily, allowing him to climb up into her arms. Lena finally comes out from behind Amira’s skirts to coo over the small visitor.

“No, he’s -” he starts, and realizes he has no other answer, “he’s mine. At least until I can find his home.”

Amira smiles at the admission, before looking a bit puzzled, “you don’t know where it is?” 

“I was hoping you might know.” He realizes now how stupid that sounds. 

“He’s like you,” he adds, hoping that will make more sense.

Amira fingers smooth over the large pointed ears of the child in her arms and shoots him an amused expression.

“He can do things,” he tries to clarify. 

Amira shakes her head, though she realizes what he means. “I don’t have any more answers than you do where beings like us come from.” 

“I thought maybe you could find something in his mind.” Like a glimpse of his homeworld or the name of his people.

She tickles the child and it squeals happily beneath her fingers as she grins down at him, her words soft, “he’s just a baby. The only thing on his mind is you.”

She turns her smile in his direction, and it’s almost enough to keep the disappointment at bay. He had been so certain that coming here would give him the answers...

The sound of a small rumbling belly interrupts his thoughts, and Amira and Lena both giggle at the sound.

“And he thinks about food, of course - why don’t you come in for supper? We’ve got plenty for both of you, you can stay as long as you need.”

Even Lena is now looking at him with the expectation he’ll come with them, apparently having warmed up to him now that she’s met the kid.

“We can’t stay long, it’s not safe. The Guild...” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence, he doesn’t need to. He can see the moment she realizes he broke with the Guild over the child, had left his previous life behind for him when he couldn’t do it for her, but she doesn’t look hurt. In fact she smiles, bright and open. 

“Whatever you need from us, it’s yours.”

What he really needs, he suddenly realizes, was always just her. But he can’t ask her that.

"Come in for supper then,” he finds himself automatically following her in, “and I'll get packed."

He stops dead in his tracks.

"That's why you're here isn't it?" She asks easily, and he can’t deny it. As much as he tried to convince himself that he simply came here for intel, Amira could always see right through him.

He wanted her to come back with them. Amira would know what to do with the child, how to teach him, how to protect him. And selfishly, he wanted her there for himself - had never really stopped wanting that. But he couldn’t just take her away from her home and thrust her back into the danger she worked so hard to escape.

"I can't ask -" he starts, trying to find the words to explain how much he wants her to come but doesn’t want to ruin her life for him. Instead he tells her, “I had to kill your uncle”

But she doesn’t seem upset by this revelation either, she simply shakes her head and smiles softly. “He’s still alive - I would know if he died. But it seems like you keep finding trouble.”

“It keeps finding me.”

He looks down at the small child clinging to Amira’s blouse, thinking at least it hasn’t all been bad.

But still he tells her, “I can’t ask you to come with me. You came here to get away from all of this.”

“I came here to get away from the war, not from you, Mandalorian. Let me help you - both of you. I have the feeling you’re going to need my help with Gideon."

She says it with a kindness and a finality that he’s powerless to fight against - and he doesn’t really want to. He’s already imagining what it will be like to have her back with him, with both of them. She may not have wanted to live her life on the run, but she was good at it, better than anyone else he knew. And he allowed himself to think it might not be so bad with the three of them together, looking out for one another... 

But still, he recognized what she was giving up for him, and how he could never even begin to repay her for this. He could only offer her one more small piece of himself in thanks.

“Din. My name is Din.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick epilogue to sweet the ending a little :)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with me on this very long journey! A special thanks goes out to my wonderful beta, PlushyRobot, who gave me so many ideas and so much encouragement for this story. And also for everyone who left comments and reviews (special shoutout to GlamorousGamine for their long and thoughtful comments on each chapter), thank you all again for keeping me going! 
> 
> Season two starts this month!!


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